


Live 'til You Die

by little_abyss



Series: The Wastelands [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Punk, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Arguing, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Chantry Issues, Concerts, Drug Addiction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mages and Templars, Musicians, Origin Story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship Issues, Sexual Tension, Siblings, Slavery (mention), Smoking, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6498637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taliesin Hawke left his guitars behind in Fereldan, running from the Blight.  Newly arrived in Kirkwall, he and his brother Carver set about claiming a piece of the local punk scene for themselves.  But where there's a Hawke, there's trouble; will Fader make it, in a city that has no place for them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Bright Wastelands, Full of Noise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4874683) by [little_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss). 



> This is the story that wouldn't stop singing to me. Originally, Fader were just a bit-part band from Bright Wastelands, Full of Noise. You definitely do not have to have read Wastelands to understand this one, but if you did, you'll see more things that you might recognise.
> 
> Tags will be updated as we go, and there's a GDV warning already, so bear that in mind. The E rating is for the violence, and explicit sexual content (which doesn't happen for a while; such a tease)
> 
> Lastly, I [tumble here](http://littlexabyss.tumblr.com/). There is _lots_ more stuff on the Wastelands verse - gig posters, discographies and interviews over on tumblr, so come say hey.

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”

William Blake

from _ The Marriage of Heaven and Hell _

* * *

 

Taliesin Hawke lies awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.  He can hear his mother, crying softly in the bathroom, as Uncle Gamlen swears at the television.  ‘Spawn in Fereldan, more slavers off the coast, the whole of Thedas going to the Void if the late night news has anything to say about it.  And they do.  They always do.  He sighs and shifts on the rickety fold out bed, and tucks a hand under his head.  “Hey,” Carver whispers, there in the dark beside him, “You awake?”

 

“Yeah,” Hawke whispers back and turns over in the narrow bed. It’s past one am now, and they both should have been asleep a long time ago.  “What?”

“Nothing.” Silence for a moment, then, “You gonna talk to her?”

_ Mum _ . “And say what, exactly?”

“I don’t know.  Just…”  But Carver trails off, and after a moment, Hawke sighs again.  He sits up in bed, wincing at the grinding screech of the springs.  “Fuck this.  I’m off.”

 

“What?  Off where?” Carver asks, sitting up as well.  He watches as Hawke stands and dresses quickly.  As he sits back down on the bed to pull on socks and boots, Carver tells him, “I’m coming too.”

“No, no, you’re not.  Carv, c’mon.”  But Hawke knows it’s useless to argue, so he only shakes his head as Carver swings his legs out of the narrow bed and struggles to find his own clothes.  Once his brother has finished dressing, Hawke grabs his smokes and sighs.  “Come on then.  But be quiet.”

 

The Kirkwall night is humid.  It smells like shit and old fish here in Lowtown, down near the docks.  Old rubbish piles in the gutter, remnants of the general strike that had been broken two weeks prior to the Hawke family’s arrival.  There was anger in the streets still though, a lot of stupid conspiracy that the refugee crisis had been manufactured by the Viscount’s office as a way to bring in cheap scab labour, force the Kirkwallers back to work.  He remembers thinking  _ we’re just dogs to them, here to do what they tell us and say thank you for the scraps. _  Neither he nor Carver have been able to find work yet, a situation which Gamlen seems to remind them of almost hourly.  Carver.  Poor kid.  Hawke looks at him, in the orange glow of the streetlight, watching as Carver runs a hand over his barely-grown-out military buzz cut.  Carver catches his gaze and turns, frowning, to ask, “Where are we going?”

 

Hawke shrugs.  “Dunno.  I just… didn’t want to be in that shit shack any more.”  He huffs out a breath and asks tersely, “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.  Why wouldn’t I be?”

_ Because Bethy’s not been dead a month?  Because Mum’s a wreck?  Because I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m angry all the time and you don’t seem much better?  Because I don’t know what to say to you that doesn’t sound like ‘Life’s shit, then you die’, no matter how I phrase it?  I don’t know, baby bro.  Take your pick. _  He doesn’t say any of that to Carver, just shakes his head and looks at the pavement again.  “Dunno.  How’s civvie life treating you?  Feel good to escape the role of cog in the military industrial complex?”

Carver only snorts and shakes his head.  After a moment, he replies softly, “It’s fucking boring.  I never know what to do with myself.”  He frowns and kicks at an empty tin can, which skitters noisily off down the narrow street.  “No jobs here, Tal.  Why the fuck did Mum think Kirkwall’d be a good bet?”

 

“She knows it.  Or… knew it, rather.  I s’pose there’s some comfort in that, in coming back home.  Dad took her out of Kirkwall, so I suppose it makes sense that she’d want to come back.  After all she lost in Lothering, it seems… logical.  In a way.”  Hawke looks up at the clouds, scudding low and threatening across the sky and feels a chill which has nothing to do with the close, hot air around him.  They keep walking.

 

Carver kicks the can again as if it has done him a great personal wrong.  An older human woman, leaning against a wall smeared with graffiti asks in a Marcher accent, “Looking for a date?”  Hawke smiles at her, answering for the both of them with a curt, “No thanks.”  “Dog-lords,” the woman mutters, but the insult is given without much heat.  They continue walking, in and out of light and darkness as they pass through the glow of one streetlight after another.

 

“This sucks,” Carver says softly, and then, softer still, “I miss my drums.”

“Yeah.  Sucks we couldn’t bring them,” Hawke smiles.  “Maybe the ‘spawn are playing them.  And my guitar,” he adds ruefully, then brightens.  “Imagine!  They could do a cover of  _ I Love the Dead _ .  They could form a band!  Call themselves  _ ‘Spawn Again _ !”

“Gross,” Carver says, “I don’t want those freaks anywhere near my kit.”  He rolls his eyes and grimaces at Hawke, who grins.  They keep walking down the cobbled street, down, down toward Darktown, when suddenly Hawke stops. 

 

“What are you doing, idiot?” Carver hisses, “We can’t stop here!  Gamlen said…”

But Hawke waves at him to be quiet.  After a moment, when he appears to be listening intently, he asks Carver, “Do you hear that?”

“What, dumbshit?  The sound of our faces getting smashed in by some Carta gang?”

“No, numb nuts.”  Hawke’s face breaks into a huge smile, and he lunges forward, grabbing Carver by the wrist.  “Drums!”

 

“Wh-what?” is all Carver has time for before he is hauled off down the street.  They reach a flight of stairs.  Hawke bounds down them, ignorant of Carver’s protests, but when he reaches the bottom he slows and then stops, half way down a narrow alley

“Maker, what was that about?  Fuck, it smells disgusting down here,” Carver moans.  But Hawke is gone, focussed, looking left and right, trying to find where the music is coming from.  It’s definitely louder down here, but there are three doors facing them, all the same rusted steel construction.  There are pieces of paper stuck to the walls and doors in a heavy  _ papier machê _ \- old gig posters in various states of disintegration.  The ink on many of them is smeared, and almost all of them look hand-drawn and photocopied.  Hawke leans in closer to one of them and snickers. “Chantry Fuck,” he reads aloud, then turns to Carver and grins.  “Baby bro, I feel like I’ve just come home.”

 

“What?” Carver asks again, sounding more frustrated than before.  But now Hawke is pushing open the heavy door in the middle, the rusted hinges screaming, and the noise… the  _ music _ , that comes up to greet them from the dim stairwell behind it, it rushes to them, embracing them both like long lost friends.  The brothers look at each other, there in the half light, and smile.  Then they descend into the space beyond.

 

It stinks far worse down here.  There’s the dense reek of rotten fecal matter, undercut with the choking stench of old cigarette smoke, and overlaid with the high, frail aromas of lyrium and vomit.  As far as Hawke can make out, the walls are black, though the fug of sweat-haze and bad lighting makes it too hard to make out much more than that.  The place is packed - a band playing on the low stage, people leaping up and down in front of it.  There’s a small bar, which Hawke can barely see - he registers it’s a bar, because people are crowded around it, many of them have money in their hands, and those that don’t seem to be turning away with plastic cups.  He can feel Carver behind him as he pushes forward through the crowd, unsure whether to make his way to the stage or the bar.  As he stands for a moment on the bottom step, his eyes scanning the crowd, he sees a woman in an off-white singlet top smile slyly at a paunchy man in a black leather jacket and skinny jeans.  The woman’s long auburn hair catches the low light, as does a significant amount of gold ( _ or goldish _ , Hawke thinks) jewellery - three piercings along her bottom lip, one through her septum, and another in between her perfectly arched brows.   _ Rivaini, maybe? _ , Hawke has time to wonder, before the woman throws her long hair over one shoulder, laughs, then her fist strikes out, punching the man low in the gut.

 

He doubles over, taking to one knee, both hands going to his stomach.  Hawke moves, taking off through the crowd, Carver not half a second behind him.  As they approach, even over the noise that the band on stage are making, he can hear the woman’s voice as she yells down at the man on his knees, “...calls me  _ baby _ , asshole!” 

 

Hawke pushes past a stunned onlooker to see the woman, her face a mask of fury, hands on hips.  “Hey!” Carver yells, “What the fuck?”  

The woman looks up and then quickly to her left.  She laughs, dodging the fist thrown by a skinny guy with loads of tattoos on his arms, his hair dyed a toxic red.  “Little boys,” she laughs again, and Hawke cannot help but laugh along with her.  She grins at him briefly, before feinting with her right hand and then striking a brutal, swift jab to the newcomers jaw.  He reels away, holding his face, blood pouring through his fingers, and Hawke hears Carver say, “Whoa,” in an admiring tone.  But there are more approaching now, more men looking angry or at least willing enough to fight that Hawke asks this woman, “Time for a strategic retreat, you think?  Or stay for maximum mayhem?”

“Mayhem,” the woman tells him, squaring her shoulders and grinning, “Always chose mayhem.”

Hawke smiles, clenching his fists, which dance suddenly with electrical current, “Good.  I was hoping you’d say that.”

 

The woman’s name is Isabela. There is a scratch on her cheek, and her knuckles are bloody.  Carver is looking at her like she’s Holy Andraste Herself, and Hawke has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop the wry smile that threatens his lips whenever he looks at his brother's’ face.   _ Little boys indeed _ , he thinks as he listens to Isabela, then something she’s said filters into his mind and he says, “Wait.  It actually used to  _ be _ a sewer?”

“That’s what I hear,” she tells him.  They are sitting on a dock, legs dangling over the water, sharing a bottle of cheap wine purchased from a ratty 24 hour liquor shop.  “You boys must be new in town, not to have heard of it.  That’s how the place got it’s name.” She tilts her head and smirks, “Not very original with names, the Kirkwallers.”

 

“Hmm.  So what?” Hawke asks, “The Sewer’s a dive bar with live music.  They must be a copper a dozen in a city this size.”

Isabela finishes her drink and passes the bottle to Carver.  That wry smile threatens again as Hawke sees Carver raise the neck of the bottle to his lips without wiping it, the way he so conscientiously does when he and Hawke share.  “There’s other venues,” Isabela tells them, “The Bone Pit…”

“...sounds like a gay bar,” Hawke grins, and Carver chokes on his wine and mutters, “You’d know.”

Isabela ignores them, “The Hanged Man, the Gallows… if you’re into that poser metal scene…”

Hawke wrinkles his nose at Carver’s look of enthusiasm.  “Carv, gross, I’m not going to any place that my new best buddy has just called  _ the poser metal scene _ .”

“...oh, and Bloom.  That’s… well, it’s not really live music - it’s a strip club, but it has a great DJ.”  She looks at Hawke, and that sly smile is back, “Good for meeting people.”

 

Hawke returns her smile and shrugs, hoping he’d not given her the wrong impression.  Carver passes the wine bottle back to him, and he takes a drink.  There’s a silence for a moment, broken only by the creak of the moorings on the fishing boats and the slap of the water against the pilings beneath them.  “It doesn’t matter much,” Isabela tells them at last, and gestures for the wine bottle, “I won’t be playing anywhere for a while.”

 

“Oh?” Hawke says, willing Carver to be cool, be cool for once in his life.  By some miracle, Carver remains silent long enough for Isabela to nod and say, “yeah.  That guy I punched?  That was Castillon.  Our lead guitarist.”  She sighs harshly and asks, “Why are lead guitarists generally such ego-blinded cunts?”

 

Carver guffaws, his laughter loud and long in the predawn darkness.  Isabela looks at him in surprise, then at Hawke, who shrugs.  “I’m a lead guitarist.  Or I was.  Before I left to take up the inspirational role of full time unemployed refugee apostate.”

“That’s a burgeoning industry, I hear,” Isabela smirks, then says over Carvers’ continued laughter, “So?  Why  _ are _ so many lead guitarists ego-blinded cunts?”

“Well, of course I can only speak for myself, but it’s generally because we’re both hotter and cooler than the rest of the band put together.”  Hawke shrugs and returns her smirk, “And I always thought of myself as less ego-blinded and more emotionally stunted.”  Isabela laughs.

 

There is quiet for a time, after Carver’s braying has died off.  Then Isabela muses aloud, “So… you play guitar?”

Carver immediately pipes up, “Yeah, he plays guitar.  I do drums.  Play them, I mean.”

“Do you now?” Isabela looks at Carver and Tal chuckles as he watches Carver simultaneously blush and puff his chest out proudly. “Yeah.  My sister plays… played keyboards.”

This last is uttered almost in a whisper, and Hawke watches as Carver’s facial expression closes in on itself, becoming blank and rigid.   _ Oh shit, baby bro _ , Hawke thinks, and with that, Isabela asks without any trace of guile, “Really?  Did she give it up?”

“No,” Carver says bluntly, and before Hawke can interject, he tells Isabela, “She died.”

 

“Shit.  I’m sorry,” Isabela says, and puts her hand on Carver's arm.  She doesn’t say more than that, doesn’t ask, doesn’t fill the air with platitudes, and for that, Hawke is grateful.  Eventually, Carver sniffs and says, “S’alright.”  Isabela rubs his arm a little before taking her hand away, and Carver manages a weak smile at her.

 

Silence for a moment longer, there on the dock.  Hawke looks out over the harbour and thinks he sees the first light of the new day skimming the horizon, sketching a thin, pale yellow line across the water.  “Well,” he says, “All we need now is a singer, and we’ve got ourselves a band.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Isabela says.  “I mean, I guess we should… have a practice or something?  I suppose you two don’t have the coin to rent space… and I mean,” she says hurriedly, almost as if she’s remembered she should give herself an out if it turns out they’re a bit shit, or even not very musically compatible, “I don’t know how long I’ll be in town for, really.  Things to see, people to do, you know how it is.”

 

Hawke nods; he sees through the ruse rather quickly, but appreciates that instinct for self-preservation.  “No,” he says, “No coin for space, but our uncle does have a rather lovely, completely filthy garage.  However, we have no instruments or gear… we could mime?” He finishes lamely, and Isabela smirks and shakes her head.

“That’s nothing.  Two strapping boys like yourselves should have no trouble liberating something from a tour truck.  Plenty of tours through Kirkwall at the moment.  Why, tomorrow night it just so happens that Traitor’s Daughter are playing the Gallows.  Start there.”

“You mean... _ steal _ ?” Carver asks, and Hawke laughs.  

“No, no, Carver!   _ Liberate _ ,” he clarifies, then stands to hurl the empty wine bottle into the water.  It’s a bad throw, and the bottle ends up smashing loudly onto the deck of a rather fancy looking yacht.  “M’lady Isabela,” he says grandly, gesturing down at her, then holding his hand out as if he is an Orlesian courtier asking for a dance, “Would you do me the honour of accompanying myself and my scoundrel of a brother on a liberatory mission of epic proportions?”

“I’m a big fan of epic proportions,” Isabela grins, and takes his hand.  “Tal, good ser, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

They make arrangements to meet the following night.  As they part, Hawke and Carver to sneak back into Gamlen’s house, Isabela for somewhere deeper into Lowtown, she turns, yelling down the early morning street, “Hey!  Hawke!”

“Yeah?” Both Hawke and Carver turn, and answer her in unison.  Isabela laughs, bright as the dawn and says, “This is the start of something good.  I can feel it.”  Then she turns and saunters away.

Hawke turns around, fishing his cigarettes from a pocket.  Carver walks backward for a moment longer, watching Isabela, then says, “Pretty crazy night, Tal.”

“Yeah,” Hawke says, clicking his fingers, allowing flame to flare between them, enough to light the cigarette.  “I get the feeling this is just the beginning of our crazy nights, baby bro.  Good times, crazy nights… couldn’t ask for more.”


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s… fuck, Tal,  _ fuck! _ ”

“Keep your voice down, you moron…”

“Keep your end up then, assmunch…”

“Why do you insist on playing an instrument with so many fucking parts to it..?”

 

“Why do you both insist on talking so fucking much?” Isabela hisses at them.  She has a guitar in each hand, and several wrapped leads around her shoulders.  Hawke grins and shrugs.  They’ve managed to get a cymbal and stand, a floor tom and two kick pedals to the van, left idling down the side alley with its lights off.  They can hear Traitor’s Daughter going from inside, the bass causing the walls to vibrate slightly, the lyrics indistinguishable.  As they had loaded each part of the drum kit into the van, Isabela had been alert, but casual.  “No stress,” she’d whispered to them as they’d jogged back to the open stage door, “No stress at all.”

 

But the bass drum is giving them trouble.  Carver glares at Hawke over the case as he hitches it a little higher.  “Fucking dick,” he whispers and Hawke blows him a kiss, smirking.  And Maker, they would have made it too, if it wasn’t for those fucking stairs.  It is Hawke who loses his footing, he has one shining moment of seeing shock on both Carver and Isabela’s faces as he falls, dragging the drum out of his brothers’ grip.  Both he and the drum tumble backward down the stairs in a clatter and boom and string of colourful curses.  “Hey!” they hear from within the darkness of the backstage area, and Isabela immediately yells, “Ditch it!  Let’s go!”

 

Hawke lands on his ass with a huff of breath at the bottom of the stairs, the bass drum rolling slightly then toppling over with a loud boom.  Isabela leaps past him, down all the stairs at once, and Carver opens his mouth in an exasperated sneer.  “Fuck me,” he moans and Hawke grins at him.

“It’s only my arse, Carv.  It was cracked already.”

“Not you, you idiot, the drum!”

 

As Carver descends the stairs two at a time, bending to scoop up the drum and lumber with it after Isabela, Hawke picks himself up.  “Jerks,” he mutters, then as an angry looking dwarf appears at the doorway, he grins again.  “Thanks!” he laughs, and runs as fast as his bruised buttocks will allow, back toward the van.

 

Isabela drives like someone is chasing her, although both Carver and Hawke insist that there is nobody, no cops or anyone else, on their tail.  “Never assume a clean break,” she tells them, numerous times, keeping her eyes on the road.  That look is back on Carver’s face, that worshipful stare, and Hawke covers his mouth with his hand to hide the smirk.

 

Eventually, they pull up in a little alleyway behind a bar.  Isabela flings a set of keys back to Hawke, hitting him in the head with them.  She laughs at his squawk, then says “Sorry,” completely insincerely.  “We’ll take the stuff out of the back, then I’ll dump the van.  You take it up to the apartment while I’m doing that, see what we got.  Sound good?”

“Yeah… but why are you dumping the van?” Carver asks, all eyes and Isabela smiles gently at him and cocks her head.

“It’s hot, silly boy.  Oh shit, I forgot to ask, you don’t have any priors, do you?”

 

“Not here,” Hawke says, and Carver shakes his head.  

“Good,”  Isabela says, and opens her door.  As they clamber out of the van, Isabela says, “Varric’ll sort you out.  I told him to look after whoever bought the keys up.”

“Who’s Varric?” Carver asks, heaving the bass drum out of the back.  When Hawke goes to help him he says, “No way, doofus, you get the doors.”

“Varric’s a mate of mine.” Isabela answers, “He’s a good guy.  No stress, okay boys?”

 

“Yes, Izzy,” Hawke chirps, and twirls the keys around his finger.  She winks at him as she begins loading the rest of the stolen gear onto the pavement, and he walks to a door and unlocks it.  “Hurry up,” Carver whines from behind him.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hawke says, and jiggles the lock.  “C’mon then.”

 

The staircase is narrow and dim.  Hawke climbs the stairs two at a time, hearing the thrum of bar noise below his feet.  He’d noticed that they’d passed a bar with a sign which was more sculpture than anything else - a man, hanging upside down by his feet.   _ Must be this Hanged Man _ , he thinks as he ascends.  The stairs lead to a single door on a landing, and Hawke shrugs before he knocks twice.  “Coming,” he hears a voice say from inside.

 

The door is opened by a dwarf, who looks Hawke up and down then asks him, “Yeah?”

“Varric?”  Hawke holds out the keys, then announces, “Isabela sent us.”

“Hey, great, come on in.”  Varric stands aside, allowing Hawke and Carver into the apartment.  “Just stick it anywhere, guy.  You boys been on a liberatory mission?”  Varric smirks and says, “I seen Carta thieves with more finesse in their left elbows than either of you two look like you got.  No offence.”

“None taken,” Hawke laughs, “It was… probably more smash and grab than Isabela anticipated.”

 

Varric laughs, then asks, “You need a hand?”

“No,” Carver immediately says, as he begins to descend the stairs again, having put the drum down on the floor in a corner by a small, filthy kitchenette.  Varric shrugs, then asks Hawke, “What’s your name, kiddo?”

“Shit, dreadfully sorry,” Hawke says, and extends a hand to Varric.  As they shake, Hawke tells him his name, then adds, “The guy with the attitude is my brother, Carver.”

“Little brother, right?”  Varric nods, but before Hawke can respond in the affirmative, he says, “Yeah, thought so.  You sure you don’t need a hand?”

“Well,  _ I’m _ not going to say no.  But Carv’s a bit…  _ particular _ about the drums.  Also, I hate to drag you away from whatever you were doing…”

“...and I do so loathe manual labour,” Varric flounces, then laughs.  “C’mon.  Can’t leave that shit standing about on the street.”

 

It only takes a few trips with all three of them helping.  Once they have the last pieces up in the apartment, Carver immediately starts inspecting each part of the drum kit closely, and Hawke smiles.  He senses Varric’s gaze on him and looks at the dwarf, who asks, “You guys want a beer?”

“Yes please,” Hawke answers and then pokes Carver with his foot.  “Huh?” Carver asks, without looking up from the kick pedal in his hands, and Varric repeats his question.

 

“Nah, I’m okay,” Carver answers, and Hawke sighs.

“Excuse him.  Not only did I get all the good looks, I got all the grace and social ability too,” he tells Varric, who grins and beckons to Hawke as he walks through to the kitchenette.  Hawke notices a beaten up typewriter on the kitchen counter, notebooks on one side, typed sheets on the other in a neat stack.   _ Writer _ , he thinks to himself, and resists the urge to read the notes.  

“Lookin’ at you, I’d say there wasn’t much of any of that shit to go ‘round in your genetic pool to start off with,” Varric says, slamming the cap of a bottle on the edge of the kitchen bench, and when the cap pops off, handing it to Hawke.  Hawke chuckles and thanks him, and watches Varric repeat the process with his own bottle.  There is companionable silence for a moment as they both drink.

“So, how do you know Rivaini?” Varric asks.

 

“Rivaini?” Hawke enquires politely, then clicks.  “Oh! Isabela.  Uh, we met at the Sewer last week.”

“You weren’t one of the dudes who helped her out in that fight with Castillion, were you?”  Varric grins, “That sounded pretty epic.”

“I don’t know how much help I was.  Carver helped plenty.”

They look at Carver, sitting on the floor, one knee up, poking through the hole in his jeans as he inspects the lugs on the snare.  “This is good shit, Tal,” Carver says, “Mapex, Tama… all the good shit.  Pays to steal it.  This kick alone’d be worth more than Gamlen’s car.”

“Since that hunk of junk’s only worth about forty for scrap, I’m not putting much store by that assessment.  But it’s good that it’s good.  We just gotta get some amps now, and…”

 

“Amps?  Whyn't you just go down to the Bone Pit, use that stuff?  I thought that was the plan.”

“Uh…”  Hawke glances at Carver, who shrugs, “Why would we go there?  Isabela said it was a bar.”

“Well, nah, it’s not really.  It’s a communal space; a squat, a performance art space, a place for parties.  Big, warehouse kind of building.  Run by these dudes in a band called Slaves and a bunch of artists.  It’s punk as fuck, you’ll fit right in.  You want an intro?  Izzy knows them, but I think she’s a bit…”  Varric frowns a little, see-saws his hand in the air, “a bit out of that scene, since she’s been travelling with Armada.”

“Armada… was that her old band?”

 

“It certainly was, cutie.  And we were this close to El Canto and Imperium having a Maker-damned bidding war over us, if that shit Castillion hadn’t blown the whole thing.”  Isabela sighs, adjusting her bright blue headband.  Varric grins, puts his hand over his heart and says, “Fuck, Rivaini.  You damn near gave me a heart attack.  You know you don’t sneak up on a dwarf.”

 

“Aw, quit it,” Isabela smiles, crossing the room and opening the fridge.  “Just because you couldn’t sneak anywhere to save your life.  Varric, where’s your beer?”

“Bottom shelf, woman.  I swear you only stay with me to bogart all my booze.”

 

“Maker knows there’s no other benefits,” Isabela tells him, her face in the fridge.  She retrieves a beer and slams the cap off using the same technique as Varric.  Hawke notices there is a series of chips and scrapes out of the top of the Formica counter and smiles.  This little apartment is ratty, but comfortable;  from the threadbare sofa which sags in the middle to the books stacked in every available nook and cranny, the noise from the bar below muffled.  Varric smiles up at Hawke and scratches his chest.  “So?  What do you think?  You can practice there, it’s kind of the point.  You wanna come and meet Seamus tomorrow, and I’ll give you an introduction?”

 

“What?” Isabela asks, frowning.  “I thought we were using your uncle's garage.”

“Not until we get amps, Izzy.  I mean, I might be able to play an acoustic, but…”  He shrugs,  “Better to start as we mean to continue, right?”

“Plus it always helps to hear your instruments.”  Isabela shrugs.  “Yeah, okay.  There’s always someone around there, but for the sake of… y’know… kindness, let's go at like… two pm.”  She turns to Varric, “What’d’you think?”

He shrugs, “Sounds fine to me.”

 

Carver sighs from the floor.  “Y’know, I can’t believe I’ve gotta leave these things here.  Did you have a look at those guitars yet?”

“Shit!  No, I didn’t!” Hawke’s eyes light up, and he crosses the room quickly, boots sticking ominously to the thin carpet.  Crouching on the floor in front of where Varric has leant the guitars, he sets his beer carefully down and gazes at the two of them, propped next to each other.  The first is a bass guitar, and he discounts it immediately.  The other however, is an electric, and he smiles at his reflection swimming in the black surface.  The brand of the guitar,  _ Rickenbacker, _ is written in retro cursive script on the headstock.  Hawke traces a hand lovingly down the guitar, noting the set neck, the bright flare of the mother of pearl inlays.  It is much nicer than either of the guitars he’d left back home - but those… ah, those had sentimental value this will never have, despite the fond memories he’s in no doubt he’ll have of this night.  

 

No; the electric he’d left behind was nothing but an entry level Fender, battered and well-loved; but he’d performed his first gigs with it, in a series of terribly named bands.  And the acoustic… well.  The acoustic had been his father's, a Washburn brand.  He smiles sadly as he remembers the warmth of his father’s chest at his back, sitting on his lap with his arms stretched out over the body of the guitar, his father making the chord shapes on the fretboard as Hawke’s own fingers strummed the strings.  Bethany’s wide eyes staring at them both from the floor, her bib covered in drool which dripped off her chin.  He remembers her extending a hand to them, the fingers still chubby, and grabbing at the air, as if she could touch the music.  

 

Hawke sighs and picks up his beer bottle, then rises.  “Pretty nice,” he says to Carver, then toasts Isabela with his drink.  “Good choices.”

“I know,” she says smugly, raising her own bottle to return the toast.  “My choices usually are.”

 

-|||-

 

They hear a shuffling behind the heavy, scarred door after almost ten minutes trying to raise someone.  “Sorry, sorry, hang on!” a lilting voice says, and then there is the noise of the scraping back of chains and the unhitching of deadbolts.  “Oh shit, hang on,” the voice mutters, then there is a brief explosive noise and a yelp, then a laugh.  “Okay, that did it!” 

 

The door swings open, revealing a slim elven woman with dark hair, dressed in an oversized t-shirt which reads ARTRAT in badly stenciled black ink and not much else.  She laughs and shunts a slightly smouldering deadbolt to one side with her bare foot.  “Oops.  Hi!  Sorry about that.  Oh!  Hi Varric!  You came back!”

 

“Yeah, I did, Daisy.  Hey, is Seamus around?”

The woman he’s referred to as Daisy shakes her head, “No, he left about half an hour ago with Arvaard.  They were… going to get corrugated iron, I think?  Or maybe it was plaster of paris.  I forget. Maybe a blowtorch?  Or oil pastels?”

 

Hawke frowns at Varric, who looks chagrinned.  “Bloody artists,” he mutters, then asks, “Is it okay if we come in, have a look at the space then?”

 

“Oh!  Of course!  We’ve got some really exciting stuff happening, I was just setting up some video feeds.”  This Daisy steps aside and then says to the group, “Hello!  I’m Merrill Alerion-Sabrae.”  She grins delightedly at Isabela, “I think I recognise you!  You used to practise here sometimes with your band!”

Isabela nods and smiles at her.  “And now I’m back for more, kitten.  I’m Isabela, that’s Tal and that’s Carver.” Hawke smiles and waves at her, and Merrill waves cheerily back.  Isabela glances at him quickly, then asks, “You know Varric already?”

 

Merrill nods and grins, then points to a small ball of twine sitting next to the door.  “Yes, he gave me that.  I kept on getting lost, and he found me a way to find my way home.  He’s a good sort, really.”

“Yeah, yeah, Daisy, don’t go shouting it,” Varric mutters, and beckons to Hawke and Carver.  “C’mon.  Come and see the space, if that idiot Seamus isn’t gonna help me out.”

 

‘The space,’ as it is, is horrible.  It’s a warehouse with a very rudimentary kitchen - really a couple of gas burners and a dilapidated refrigerator.  There are sleeping bags and several manky futon-style mattresses on the floor, with hastily thrown up partitions along one wall.  But what intrigues Hawke most is a small bank of amplifiers - they look almost homemade.  The space must be awful for acoustics, but beggars can’t be choosers, so he wanders over for a closer look. 

 

The amplifiers are indeed mostly refurbs - the cabinets stripped of their original bearings and refurbished with a mishmash of old and new electronics as well as a lot of electrical tape.  However, there are several bearing the distinct markings of larger, more popular bands; Hawke smirks when he sees the words  _ Killer of Birds  _ peeking through a rather psychedelic paint job on the side of one of the cabinets.  “Donations,” he mutters, and Carver asks, “Don’t these people buy anything?”

 

“Not when a stack amp like this can set you back about a thousand, maybe more,”  Hawke shrugs.  “And c’mon - it’s not like bands like K-o-B and… hah, look,” he points up, toward a howling dog logo, “Red Dogs of Violent Death, fuckin’ gross.  I mean, who cares if they lose an amp?  They’re big money acts.  It doesn’t matter to them, or to White Chant or whoever they’re signed to.”

“I guess,” Carver mutters, and then slouches off toward the drum kit.  Hawke watches as Carver gazes at it sadly, folding his arms across his chest.   _ He just wants to play _ , he thinks, and then Merrill skips over to him from where she’s been talking with Varric and Isabela.  “Hey!” she says, and Hawke opens his mouth to reply, but it’s Carver she’s addressing, “Hey, Izzy says you play drums!  You wanna have a go?  You can, that’s my kit!  Well…” she says, less enthusiastically, “it’s mostly mine.  But we share here.  Communal space, everything held in common and all that.”  She grins at him, “But I got some sticks here if you want to have a go…”

 

Carver shakes his head, and Hawke rolls his eyes.  “Go on, I’m sick of looking at that lost puppy expression.  Have a blat, you big idiot.”

“I don’t need your permission, Tal,” Carver says, but he cannot keep the smile off his face.  Merrill grins at him, and hands him a pair of drumsticks, Paiste written on them in black  As he takes them from her, he grins back, and then circles the kit to plop himself down on the stool.  After a moments fiddling, he gets the seat at the right height, and then looks to Merrill.  “Are you sure this is okay?”

“‘Course!  Go right ahead!” she beams.  

 

So he does.  Carver starts tentative, just rolling into a basic four-count.  But slowly, the frown on his face alleviates and Hawke smiles.  He loves this moment; he knows Carver has talent, has it in spades, but… it’s always so hard to compliment the thorny little bastard.  So he doesn’t.  And perhaps that makes him a bad brother, makes him a bad person, but Carver never looks as if he believes Hawke anyway.

 

The beat shifts, slipping into a stranger rhythm, harsher.  But it works, and works gloriously.  Hawke feels a pressure on his elbow, and then Isabela’s voice is in his ear: “If you’re half as good as your baby brother, then we’ve got a band.”

“Well,  _ that’s _ alright then, because I’m  _ exactly _ half as good,” Hawke grins as he mutters a reply. He looks at Merrill, as she stands alone, watching Carver play.  She is positively beaming, her hands clasped in front of her chest, and immediately he likes her for her lack of guile.

 

Eventually, Carver finishes.  Merrill starts applauding straight away, and Isabela wolf-whistles noisily.  Varric laughs and claps as well, and Hawke joins him.  Carver grins at Merrill and Isabela, then his facial expression sobers as he asks Hawke, “Alright?”

“Yeah.  Pretty good,” Hawke tells him, and Merrill yelps in astonishment.

“ _ Pretty _ good?!  That was brilliant!  The tempo shift was  _ amazing! _  Can you show me what you did there?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Carver tells her, smiling broadly - he looks slightly confused, and Hawke sees a faint blush creep over his neck.  He smirks and says nothing, of course.

 

“Hey… so, any other elements you’re looking to bring together for this band?” Varric asks, calling Hawke’s attention away from Carver.  The dwarf has his arms crossed over his chest and is looking up at Hawke quizzically.  “Y’know - a keyboard player, a vocalist, a fuckin’... I don’t know, synthesiser?  I don’t know.”  Varric then turns his gaze away from Hawke, ostensibly looking at Carver and Merrill again, but Hawke detects a strange delight, a sort of ring-masterliness to the tone.  

“I don’t think so,” Hawke tells him honestly, “I haven’t heard Izzy sing, but if I’ve got to do it it… well, it won’t be full scale trauma.  I suppose.  Maybe for the audience.”  Hawke shrugs, “We haven’t really talked about it.”

 

“Oh, sure, sure.” Varric tells him.  “Well, if you decide you wanna look into a vocalist, I might know a guy.  He’s with the Clinic at the moment, same sort of style you guys seem to be aiming for - you ever seen them?”  When Hawke shakes his head, Varric nods, “Yeah, they’re local as yet.  But they play the Sewer pretty frequently.  He used to gig with Highever Orphan back in their grittier phase, you know,  _ Burn the City _ , that album, and then did some time - literally, so the story goes - with Rebel Warden.”

 

“Shit.  Really?”  Hawke asks, and he sounds puzzled even to himself.  “He sounds like he’s got some serious pedigree.  Why did he leave Orphan and Warden?  Is he an epic asshole?”

Varric laughs, “Nah, just twitchy, I think.”  He chances a glance at Hawke, and his grin widens, “Especially around law and order types.  But you don’t strike me as someone who’d be real worried about that.”

 

Hawke guffaws.  “Yes.  Whatever gave me away?  Was it the blatant theft of musical instruments?  The bruised knuckles?”

Varric rolls his eyes and gestures at Hawke’s t-shirt.  

“Oh yes.”  Hawke grins and pulls out the shirt, gazing down at it, pretending to read the white painted words printed on the surface of the cloth, “Fuck the Chantry.  It does send a certain anti-authoritarian message, does it not?”

 

Varric chuckles, and they turn back to watch Carver, who’s blush has increased quite alarmingly, as he demonstrates to both Merrill and Isabela his technique.  “Varric,” Hawke asks, “If we were, hypothetically speaking, interested in talking to this guy, what’s his name?”

“Anders,” Varric says, “At least, that’s all the name I hear he’s got.  Just… Anders.”


	3. Chapter 3

Hawke grins at Carvers disapproving expression.  “You know,” he tells his brother, and then pushes the plunger on the syringe home, “You look just like Mum when you do that.”

The frown deepens.  “Do what?” Carver asks petulantly, and Hawke laughs, withdrawing the lyrium needle from his vein.  He can feel the blue, there under his skin, thrumming for a moment, almost hovering in suspension, and then as he loosens the makeshift tourniquet around his bicep, the dose flows free, seeming to hit him suddenly in multiple locations all at once - his heart, his lungs, his stomach, his cock.  He groans softly, and licks his bottom lip, slitting his eyes up at Carver, shading them against the flickering fluorescents in the dank little backstage room where they’re storing their equipment.  

 

They’re playing second on the bill at the Sewer tonight, and Hawke is nervous, more nervous than he’d ever admit to.  So he’d wanted a little blue to take the edge off.  Lyrium was harder to come by in Fereldan, but the scene in Kirkwall seems awash with the stuff, and not just dust either; this is what they’d called  _ holy water  _ in Lothering.  It’s a mark of how infrequently it had been available in that this is only the second time that Hawke has ever injected the drug - lyrium in its dust form is snorted or smoked.  Carver, of course, won’t touch the stuff; Hawke still remembers the very grave conversation that their parents had had with them regarding recreational drug use.  Hawke rolls his eyes and shakes his head, freeing himself of the memory.  Then he looks up at Carver and shrugs lazily.  “C’mon,” he says as he stows the empty phial and syringe, then rises.  “We’ve got a show to do.”

 

-|||-

 

The chord hangs, deliberately awkward.  Carver’s control is epic as the choppy guitar begins, staccato utterances threaded with a solid bass line.  This song is their second to last of the night - as an unknown band, they get a limited set, only ten minutes.  Which was fine with them, as Hawke had been unwilling to rely too much on covers, and they had not had as much time to rehearse as any of them would have liked.  But Isabela had gotten wind of a pull out through a contact, and had volunteered them, and then it was either sink or swim.  Carver is feeling the pressure - he’d puked twice before they even got to the venue - but the Sewer is pretty much empty at this stage in the night anyway.  There is a group of older guys at the makeshift bar, and maybe twenty people at the front of the stage, but other than that, most people are still clinging to the walls, chatting with friends, working on getting fucked up enough to participate in some way, shape or form.  Hawke turns his mind back to the soundscape he’s creating, the tempo shifting and pitching under Carver’s ministrations, the sound of this song, their song, spinning up and out, rising out of the tunnels and secret places under the city, out of the dirt and into the air, soaring toward freedom.  He feels something wet hit his arm, and looks at it to see a blob of spit slide down the hitching muscle of his forearm.   _ Some things never change, no matter where you’re from _ , he thinks, grinning,  _ Punks always think gobbing is the highest compliment. _

 

He grins, and goes back to concentrating.  The blue in his veins, the thrum of electricity through the body of his guitar, the way that the people milling around the sides of the venue are beginning to trickle toward the stage, it all meshes within his mind, becomes one pure, powerful emotion.  His hair sticks to his forehead, beginning to sweat in the thick, putrid air. The song that they’re performing is an instrumental, as neither Hawke nor Isabela were game enough to risk too much singing.  It’s a feeling like no other, this, becoming the soundtrack to other people's lives, the band they’re here to see.  Hawke sees Isabela laugh and shake her hair off her face, her white t-shirt torn to under her breasts, exposing all of her stomach, softly shining with sweat.  She grins down at a man in the front row, then raises one booted foot to his chest, pushing him gently back from the edge of the stage with it.  He stares rapturously up at her, and she laughs again.

 

The song descends deliberately into chaos.  Feedback whines from the speakers, and Hawke turns to watch Carver, waiting for the cue to begin the segue into a new track.  The place is filling rapidly now, more people up to the front, more yelling, more sweat in the air, more spit.  As Carver nods and begins to shift into the new song, Hawke approaches the microphone. 

“Hey, you fucks,” he drawls, then laughs at the good natured baying this greeting receives.  “We’re… uh…” he searches for a name - this is not something they’d managed to agree on, and he feels Carver and Isabela’s eyes heavy upon him, “We’re Fader.  This song’s called Reclamation.”

 

They manage the segue fairly seamlessly into their last song.  And thank the Maker for that, because Hawke knows he’s going to be bawled out by them both for the name thing, he doesn’t want to be torn a new one for fucking up the shift too badly.  He glances at Isabela, hoping to see some indication of how she might be feeling about the name - but as he’s turning his head toward her, his gaze is arrested.  Toward the back of the room, in the no-man’s-land between the stage crowd and the bar crowd, stands an elf.  His bright white hair stands in stark contrast to his black leather jacket, and he looks bored as hell.   _ Don’t leave _ , Hawke thinks, _ Please don’t leave before I can talk to you. _

 

Almost as if the elf has heard Hawke, he turns.  They stare at each other over the heads of the crowd, and Hawke fumbles the next chord.  “Shit,” he mutters, and looks down at his guitar.  It only takes a second or so for him to right himself, but when he looks up again, the elf has gone.  Hawke’s stomach drops, then he swallows and concentrates on the task at hand.

 

-|||-

 

“Not totally terrible,” is Isabela’s verdict.  She smirks at Hawke, then turns to stow her bass in it’s soft case.  They’re backstage again, and Hawke is feeling twitchy.  He wants to be done with this now, chasing down that white haired elf.  He shifts, takes a breath, and tries to smile at Isabela, then asks lamely, “You didn’t mind about the name thing?”

“Of course I did, you arse.  I’m not interested in being in a mage rights band.  That’s what Fader sounds like.  A bunch of political asshats who think that punk music will change the world.”  She rolls her eyes, “But it’s done now.  Fader’s what they’ll remember, and they’ll remember it in pretty good stead after that show.  It was pretty good.”  She looks at Carver, and her grin widens, “Nice to see one of you Hawke boys pays attention.”

 

“I was paying attention…” Hawke blusters, and Isabela laughs.

“Yeah, to the cock in the audience.  I saw that look on your face.  You looked like a fish drowning on a boat deck.”  She opens her mouth and closes it, eyes wide, hands flapping.  Carver laughs a little, then shrugs when Hawke looks at him.  Carver grimaces, twirling one stick over his fingers abstractedly as Isabela tells him, “You, baby-Hawke, were actually pretty fucking kick-ass.  Nice to see someone keeps their dick in their pants until they’ve left the stage.”

Hawke snorts, “You can talk!  I saw you flirting with that guy…”

“Yes, but did you notice how I didn’t fuck up a fucking F?”  Isabela rolls her eyes again and shakes her head.  “C’mon babes.  I’m buying.”

 

As they make their way back down the dark passage and out into the main room again, Hawke feels almost as if he has to redeem himself in some way.  “You should have seen this guy though, Izzy.  He was bloody beautiful.”

Isabela chuckles under her breath, barely audible as they approach the stage area from the back.  “Whatever.  Just…”  She stops walking suddenly, and turns to face them, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at them each in turn.  “Look, this goes for both of you, and I’ll only say it once.  Work is one thing, and play is another.  I don’t care how much you fuck around - I don’t care how many drugs you take or how you live your life.  If you fuck up your life, it’s none of my concern.  That is, until it starts to impact on our music. Fuck that up, and I’ll cut you off.  We clear?”

Hawke looks at Carver, who shrugs.  He pauses a moment, there in the dark just before they go through the door and into the bar space, and then tells Isabela, “Crystal.”

 

The band on the stage at the moment are giving a good show; the crowd are buoyant with the rockabilly sounds pounding around the space.  This is the slightly better known Dane and the Werewolves; Fereldan refugees, all of them, two boys from Denerim and two from Amaranthine.  Dane screams into the microphone, then sings,  _ Wine is red… poison is blue… strychnine is good… for what’s ailing you _ …  Hawke turns his head as they push toward the bar, on the lookout for the white haired elf.  He sees a tall red-haired man, talking animatedly with an older guy who looks almost comedically out of place.  The tall guy looks pretty on form; shoulder length red-blond hair worn in a loose ponytail, threadbare t-shirt which reads  _ Meat is Murder _ , beat up sneakers and a vintage, floor-length floral print skirt in shades of dingy grey and green. The other man looks like… a fucking college professor or something, right down to the wire rimmed glasses and the elbow patches on his blazer.  The tall man catches Hawke’s gaze and narrows his eyes suspiciously, then looks away again.  Hawke observes them for a moment longer, fascinated, then pushes through the crowd after Isabela and Carver.

 

Where could the elf be? In a crowd like this, it’ll be like finding a needle in in a haystack, but Taliesin Hawke has been called  _ stubborn _ before today.  He twitches his lips, a kind of half-smile, eyes scanning, scanning, arresting at every pointed ear, every flash of white.  Isabela is waving at the bartender, trying to get her attention.  Carver is looking over at the older guys Hawke had noticed before as they wait.  He turns and frowns up at Hawke to ask, “Those guys seem familiar to you, Tal?”

 

Hawke looks more carefully at the two men.  Once sports a fairly impressive moustache, and a clinging pale grey t-shirt with jeans.  The other is a blond beefcake type, shaved head and somewhat vacant expression, his short sleeves partially exposing a sleeve tattoo of Warrior Andraste on one bicep.  But no - they do look familiar, in a vague kind of way.  “Can’t place…” Hawke begins to tell Carver, when Carver grips his arm in a vice like hand.  “Ow, fuck, Carv..!” Hawke whines, then Carver hisses, “That’s Al and Jean Marc.  Al  _ Theirin _ and Jean Marc  _ Stroud _ .  Last Warden Standing!  Fuck, Tal, fuck!”

 

Carver stares at the two men, and Hawke laughs.  “So?  Are you going to go and say hi?  They’ve been your favourite band forever, you douche.  Go.  Fawn.  And who knows?”  Hawke grins cheekily, braces himself for the inevitable punch, “You might get to wrap those delightful lips of yours around a Warden cock in a dingy bar lavatory.  Wouldn’t mum be proud?”

“Shut up, you prick,” Carver blushes and scowls horribly, and Hawke smiles.

“Aw, poor baby.  You should though.  Go say hi, I mean.  Take it from me, ten out of ten would  _ not  _ recommend sucking cock in a gross loo.  Unless you really want to, and then word to the wise - the knees of your jeans will almost certainly get soaked through with other people's piss.  It’s repellent.”  Hawke shudders, then narrows his eyes at Carver.  He can tell his brother has tuned him out completely, just from the fact that he’s not responded with any kind of imitation vomiting at that last statement.  He is, in fact, only staring at the two men.  As Hawke watches, the blond turns toward them, eyes scanning the crowd.  He must catch Carver’s glance, because he smiles and raises his hand in greeting.  Carver goes white and looks immediately at his shoes, but Hawke grins happily and waves back.  The blond turns, says something to Mr Moustache, and then ambles through the crowd toward them.

 

“Carv,” Hawke says, as quietly as he can over the din of the music, “You’re not going to believe it, but Beefcake is coming over here.”  Carver looks at him, eyes wide with panic.

“You talk,” he pleads, then the blond guy is standing there, holding out his hand.  

“Hello!” he says cheerily, “I’m Al Theirin.  You’re the guys from Fader, is that right?”

 

“Indeed.  Nice to meet you.  I’m Tal, Taliesin Hawke, and this is my brother, Carver.”

“Hey!  Hey, Carver,” Al beams, and Carver swallows heavily, then shakes the proffered hand.  He doesn’t speak though, only stares at Al, who smiles, then looks a little uncomfortable.  “It was a great set,” Al tells him, cutting his eyes to Hawke quickly, then back to Carver, “You guys are pretty new, aren’t you?”

Hawke nods.  “This is our first gig.”  Silently, he tries to will Carver to say something, anything.  It works, after a fashion, because Carver blurts suddenly, “Your new album sucks.”

 

Hawke resists the urge to smack his palm into his forehead, but it is a near thing.  “Oh, Maker, thank goodness!” Al says, then laughs.  “I was hoping that I wasn’t just acting the tit, assuming that you knew who I was!  Ah, you actually don’t have any idea how relieved I am about that.  Phew!”  He mimes wiping sweat off his brow, and grins at Carver.  “Bit of a fan, are you?  Oh, no, I hope you still are.  Maybe you’re not any more.  Oh… uh… I’m going to shut up now.”

 

Carver smiles slightly, then nods and wrinkles his nose.  “I still like your stuff.  Just your old stuff was… I don’t know.  Less production?  It didn’t seem so forced.  Or… I don’t know.”  He tails off, seeming to lose confidence.  Al shrugs, and looks at him kindly.

“It’s alright.  We’ve been hearing a lot of that.  Gotta try new things occasionally, but that was one that backfired.  And now, we’re looking for Riordan’s replacement…”  He sighs, and shrugs again.  “Oh!  Hey!   _ You  _  wouldn’t be interested in an audition, would you?  I mean, you’ve got some serious skills, and I mean… I mean, I know you guys have just begun and stuff, and this is your brother and all… but…”

“Yeah, shit yeah,” Carver says, and Hawke’s throat goes dry.   _ No _ , he thinks _ , nope, sorry little bro, you’re not getting out of this shithole before me.   _ But he smiles when Carver looks at him and raises his eyebrows as Al keeps talking, telling Carver more details, where they’re holding the auditions, getting his number, telling him he’ll be in touch.  As if from a long distance, he hears Carver ask, “So… that’s it?  Just come here?  Tomorrow?”

 

“Yup,” Al tells him, “There’ll be some other people there, but not many.  Thom, the guy who would be your tech… you know, if you got the gig… me, Jean, maybe some Fortress people, but we’re trying to keep it quiet.  Informal, right? So… you’re interested?”

Carver nods, and Al grins.  “Great!  Wow.  That’s really cool. And I mean, even if you don’t get it, or it turns out not to be a fit or whatever for you, it’s still really cool to meet you, Carver.  And you… uh…”

“Tal,” Hawke tells him, and smiles coldly.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right.  I’ll see you tomorrow, alright, Carver?”

“Yeah. Okay, Al.” Carver nods, and Al waves a little then walks away, back through the crowd.  Carver turns to Hawke.  “I… Did I just hallucinate that? Did I just get an audition with LWS?”

Hawke forces himself to smile.  “Looks like it, baby bro.  That’s a turn up for the books, right?”

“Shit.”  Carver rubs his chest, looking into the mid-distance.  “Shit.  Izzy!  Fuck!  You’ll never guess what happened!”

 

“What happened, baby-Hawke?  Here,” she hands him a styrofoam cup of watery looking beer, and then gives one to Hawke.  “Oh… was that Al Theirin?  I remember that ass.  And his wife’s ass.”  She smiles slowly, wistfully, and Carver looks at her as if she’s completely derailed his mental train.  

“You’ve slept with…”  he begins, and then shakes his head violently.  “He came over, said we did a great set and asked me to audition for LWS!”

 

“Ha!  No kidding,” Isabela smiles, then punches him on the arm playfully, “Looking to leave us already, are you?”

“No, no, Izzy, I just…”

She flaps her hand dismissively, and smiles again.  “Carver, I was just teasing. That’s amazing.  They’re a huge band, and to be asked to audition…”  She shrugs, “Pretty cool, baby-Hawke.  Are you going to?”

 

Carver pauses, looking at Hawke.  “I… don’t really know.”

_ Good _ , Hawke thinks.   _ Good, because if you do, they’ll want you.  And it’s not fair, Carv, it’s not fair you should get this huge break and leave me, don’t go, Maker, please don’t go. _  “No,” he says aloud, “You’re going to do it.  Maker, Carver, do you honestly think I’d ever let you forget it if you blew an opportunity like this?”  He grins at Carver, takes a drink, then sees a flash of white from the corner of his eye.  

 

“Fuck!” he splutters, seeing that it is the elf, the white haired elf, ascending the stairs toward street level.  “I gotta go,” he says, thrusting the cup of beer towards Carver, who says as he takes it on reflex, “What the fuck, Tal..?”

“Don’t wait up!  I’ll see you at home.  ‘Bye, Izzy!” Hawke yells, and launches himself through the tightly packed crowd, making for the stairs and the elf and the world above.

 

-|||-

 

The night smells sweet after the rank air of the Sewer.  Hawke heads down the alley, but when he reaches the t-junction at the top of the street, he stops.  There is no sign of the elf in either direction.   _ Little fucker moves fast, _ he thinks, and frowns.  Hawke stops, caught between wanting, needing to be in motion and the fear that he will pick the wrong path and lose the elf entirely.  His breathing is harsh in his ears, and loud… but not so loud that he cannot hear raised voices, somewhere in the distance.  He pauses, listening hard, acutely aware of how the old stone of Kirkwall makes sound echo and reverberate.  Frowning mightily, he hesitates, there on the edge of a decision.  Then he heads right.

 

He is nearly all the way to the Alienage - what human Kirkwallers derisively call  _ knife ear city _ \- when he hears shouting.  It sounds… foreign somehow, but Hawke cannot place it.  He walks, quicker now, hurrying, when he hears someone, a man’s voice, yell, “Get your  _ filthy _ hands off me!”

 

He rounds a corner and sees three human men surrounding the elf. Another man crouches on the ground, moaning and clutching his face.  Blood seeps between his fingers as he glowers up at the elf and says, “Broge by dose, Liddius.  Fug ‘im ub.”

 

“With pleasure,” growls a shortish, stocky man.  He shifts his feet into a stance which Hawke recognises as one to direct the flow of the Fade.  Hawke doesn’t think, just starts laughing, and the three men still standing all turn, shocked.  “Three and a half to one?  My, my.  That  _ is  _ unfavourable odds.  Mind if I join the dance, chaps?”

 

“This is a private matter,” one of the men tells him, and he smiles.  The elf has only glanced in his direction, almost discounting him with a glance.  “Private parties are something of a speciality of mine,” Hawke says, and grins.  “Besides, not a one of you look as if you could last more than two minutes.”  He shrugs and pretends to look at his nails, though he is concentrating on the three men, feeling the edges of their abilities jar and scrape against his own.  Mages then, all but one.  “That’s not intended as offence, mind.  Just stating fact.”

 

Livius moves quickly, and Hawke doesn’t hesitate.  As Livius draws the Fade to himself and then channels the potential energy out, arcing it up in a blaze of lightning, Hawke draws the same energy down, opening a flow of entropic energy underneath it, funnelling the excess into it where it flares for a moment, then goes dark.  Using the residual entropic field, he forces it down further, into the earth, shifting it slightly, using the ambient energy of the ground under his attackers feet to create a hyper-localised seismic shift.  He laughs as Livius’ stumbles, then curls his hand into a fist and uses it to thrust a burst of kinetic energy forward, feeling the very particles of the air around them become livid with force and Fade.  The ball of force hits Livius in the centre of his chest, and sits him on his arse where he lands with a wuff.

 

Hawke laughs, sharp and cold.  From the corner of his eye, he can see the two other men attempting to restrain the elf.   _ Bloody hell _ , he thinks, feeling panic flutter in his solar plexus as one of the men goes to hit the elf in the face.  “No,” Hawke says, not even considering what he is saying, then curls his hands around each other, feeling the tension gather around his shoulders then release.  A blue-white flare arrests the attackers movement, confining him inside a static cage; but for some reason, the elf still cries out and flinches back, as if he is in pain.  “No,” Hawke says again, and then the elf suddenly goes wild, flinging his head back with a grunt into the man who is restraining him, catching him in the teeth.  The man squawks in shock, and must let go of the elf’s arms sufficiently to allow the elf to break free, because he turns and as Hawke watches, thrusts his hand wrist deep into the man’s chest.

 

Hawke feels as if he has stopped breathing himself as, spellbound, he watches the mans eyes widen as he looks down at the elf’s arm protruding from his chest.  “I’m not going anywhere,” the elf tells him, then the man’s eyes go panicked and he brings up a torrent of blood; it covers his chin and chest, and the man seems completely unaware of it, his eyes round before they roll backwards in their sockets.  The elf withdraws his hand, and the man slumps to the ground.  “Julius?  Julius!” screams the man in the cage, and he must lean forward enough to touch the current of which it is made, because he cries out suddenly, then slumps and is silent.

 

And with all of that excitement, Hawke’s gone and forgotten about Livius.  The reminder strikes him hard in the chest, pulling him bodily forward and then up into the air, crackling with electrical current.  The current is drawn to him, piercing Hawke again and again all over his body.  Then the same force switches to bring him crashing hard against the pavement.  His head sings with the blow, and he feels his breathing shallow and sharp in his lungs.   _ Ribs _ , he thinks disjointedly, then snakes out a hand and clutches it hard into a fist.  The air around him combusts with a  _ whumpf! _ and he hears a curtailed shriek.   _ Got him _ , he thinks, his vision hazy, and grins.  He sees boots coming toward him and his grin falters slightly; he tastes blood, blinks, and passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a couple of songs mentioned in this chapter - firstly is _Reclamation_ , which is actually by Fugazi. [This leads to a video of their live performance of it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=10ViZO73Rv4). The song I've mentioned Fader playing first, the instrumental, is also by Fugazi, called _Steady Diet_. Both songs are from the album 'Steady Diet of Nothing' (1991, Dischord Records).
> 
> The second song (the one Dane and the Werewolves are playing) is called 'Strychnine', and it's been covered quite a few times. Probably the best known version is by the Cramps (from _Songs the Lord Taught Us_ ), but it was originally performed by the Sonics, on their album _Here Come the Sonics_.


	4. Chapter 4

“...up.”  Hawke’s face hurts, everything hurts, and at first he doesn’t register the voice.  He groans, and a hand shakes him by the shoulder.  Then a voice above hisses, “Get up.  We can’t stay here.”

 

All Hawke manages is another moan, and the pressure on his shoulder relents for a second.  He hears the crunch of gravel, and then there are hands under his armpits, dragging him up and over.  Hawke yelps and clutches at his ribs, then looks up at the white haired elf, who is standing astride him.  “Can you move?” he asks Hawke, and bends slightly, offering his hand.  Hawke takes it, and the elf helps him upright.  Hawke stands for a moment, woozy, then grins.  “All better.  Sorry about that.  Totally forgot about that last guy.”

 

“He wasn’t worth remembering,” the elf says dryly.  After a moment, he says, “We’d better leave.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t do to be the only witnesses to such a brawl.  The suspicion of the Templars plays such havoc with my complexion,” Hawke laughs quietly.  The elf frowns a little, and begins walking quickly back the way Hawke had come.  Hawke sighs, still holding his ribs, and shuffles after him.

 

They walk in silence, threading their way through the narrow stone alleys.  Eventually, the elf speaks.  “I apologize.  I did not mean for you to become involved in my problems.”  He pauses, then adds, “My name is Fenris.  Those men were agents of Imperium Records, looking to recover lost property.  Namely, myself.”

_ Fenris _ , Hawke thinks.  The sound the name makes in the air makes him want to shiver slightly, though he cannot put a finger on why.  The elf is… Maker, certainly even more attractive now that Hawke has heard him speak, clearly more than capable in a fight, but… there is something so lost about him as well, so… well… sad.  He opens his mouth and says the first thing that comes into his head: “That seems like a lot of effort to go to for one guy.”

 

“It is,” Fenris says, “But then, I was quite an…  _ investment _ .”

“Ew,” Hawke says, raising his eyebrow and looking at Fenris.  “That’s… pretty gross.”

Fenris snorts, “Indeed.   _ Gross _ …” he sighs and looks at Hawke, “That is a fairly glib way to describe the situation.”

“So… what?  Are you a musician?  Were you like…”  But Hawke cannot say it, does not want to offend his new acquaintance, and the sentence hangs awkwardly until Fenris nods.

“Yes.  I am still contractually  _ obliged _ , so to speak, to Imperium Records, but I am not going back.”  Hawke sees Fenris’ jaw work, and he repeats, “I am  _ not. _ ”

 

“Fair enough.  No right thinking person would.”  Hawke sticks out his hand and grins, “Taliesin Hawke, general busy-body, all-round interfer-er, and sometime nice guy, at your service.”

Fenris snorts again and shakes Hawke’s hand briefly.  He looks at Hawke suspiciously for a moment, then states, “You’re a mage.”

 

“Whatever gave me away?  The shrieking whenever someone tries to punch me?  The lightning coming out of my hands?”

“The general sense of your own self importance had something to do with it too,” Fenris says, and takes a deep breath.  He has made the statement so drolly, with such a deadpan expression that Hawke’s stomach drops.  He remembers the way that Fenris’ opponent had retched blood, the way his eyes had rolled back in his head, and shudders, before his brain catches up and he realises Fenris has made a joke.  “Oh!” he exclaims, “Well.  Yes, I have that too.  Uh… do you have… something of a problem with mages?”

 

He remembers the way that Fenris had cried out, panicked, when the static cage had formed around one of his attackers, the way his white tattoos had seemed to flare bright blue.  For some bizarre reason, Hawke wants to apologise, the first time in his life he’s ever felt this way.  Certainly, he knows that many people are not comfortable with the idea of magic; that, ostensibly is the reasoning for the Templars, after all.  Fenris is looking at him, seeming to size him up, and then states, “It depends.  What do you want?”

 

“Want?”  Hawke laughs, “Sweet Andraste’s Nipple Rings, all I want is a cold beer and a…”  _ handsome man to fuck me blind _ , he was going to say, and then amends to, “a record deal.  That’s not much to ask, surely?”

“Hmmf,” Fenris says, noncommittally.  He smiles wryly and scratches his head.  “Well, the cold beer is easier to manage.  It isn’t much, but I feel I owe you something for your assistance.”

“No, no, Fenris.  You don’t owe me anything.  If those guys were harassing you, then it was… well, not my pleasure, given the injuries, but…”  Hawke pauses, thinking, then finishes, “I didn’t mind.  I… well…”

 

Should he say it?  It seems creepy, really, that he’s followed Fenris from the Sewer just because of the way he looked.  But it’s the truth, and so Hawke reasons that it’s better to start by being a creepy truth-teller than someone who twists their motivations to seem more palatable.  Before he can change his mind and chicken out, he says blithely, “I saw you from the stage.  Back in the Sewer, you know?  I wanted to talk to you, and… well, I saw you leave and… I swear, we looked at each other and... uh…”

 

He’s doing this badly, he knows it.  Hawke pauses, rubs his neck and blows out a breath.  They have walked a good distance now, the night air cool and still around them.  They ascend steps, the old stone pavers bowed in the middle with so much traffic - this is the primary pedestrian access through Kirkwall, the route that much of the city takes toward the central business district.  A monorail creaks and rattles overhead, the whine and boom of it drowning out the call of the night birds.  Hawke sighs, wondering if his tendency to blurt the first thing he thinks will ever do him a favour and fuck off.  Then he wrinkles his nose, looking around them at the neat beds of flowers and the closed up fashion boutiques, the shadow of the High Chantry looming over it all in the pale moonlight.  He raises his eyebrows, hoping to change the subject and says, “Hightown, eh?  Pretty fancy.”

 

Fenris is silent.  He stares straight ahead and Hawke groans internally.   _ You’ve done it, well done _ , he tells himself,  _ blown it, whatever this might have been and gotten cracked ribs into the bargain.  Well done, fuckface _ .  He sighs quietly, then asks, “Look.  Hey.  Uh, I’m sorry.  I can go, if its…”

“Go?”  Fenris blinks at him in confusion, and then his face settles into lines of resignation.  “Oh.  Sure.  I just thought…”

The words hang between them in the cooling air, and Hawke frowns.  He’s never had this much trouble making himself understood before, so he stops walking, trying to figure it out.  Fenris takes a few more steps, and then stops as well, turning to look at Hawke.  “Okay,” Hawke begins, tilting his head curiously, “Okay, so just… just to be clear, right, I’m going to look like a total asshole here, but… look, you’re really hot, okay?  And… and I want to have a beer with you and stuff, and get to know you.  Because… not just because you’re hotter than the Sacred Flames or whatever, but…”  He shrugs, suddenly aware that he’s babbling, then finishes, rather lamely, “You… seem… nice.  Or whatever.”

 

“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or punch you in the face,” Fenris says after a long pause, his voice low.  Hawke swallows and tries an ingratiating grin.  

“Don’t you think there’s been more than enough punching for one evening?  Anyway, you strike me as much more of a lover than a fighter.”

Fenris snorts laughter and he smiles; very briefly, but it’s there.  “How little you know me,” he says, raising an eyebrow.  Then he blows out a breath and says, “Come on.  The place I’m staying at isn’t too far away.  You can get cleaned up, and then… well, we’ll see.”

Fenris turns and resumes walking.  Hawke looks at his retreating back for a moment, stunned by the promise of what that statement might hold, and then Fenris turns and frowns at him.  “Coming!” Hawke yells, and hurries to catch up.

 

-|||-

 

Half his face feels wet.  Hawke sits up, bleary, and blinks into the stale air of a place he does not recognise.  “Wha’ fuck?” he asks the world at large, and rubs at the moist patch.  Spit.  He looks down at the table his head has been resting on, and nods sagely when he sees far, far too many empty bottles on it.  Too many for one… and the house he finds himself in, it’s not his own at least.  He frowns, then winces at the pains in his ribcage, which sends the previous night’s excitement flooding into his mind.  So, he’d found the white haired elf, got in a fight, come home with the guy and then… what?  Hawke looks around the room.  He still has all his clothes on, including his boots, so probably nothing  _ that _ exciting.  Maker, he feels awful, hungover, wrung out, the come down off the lyrium sending his mind jumping at the tiniest things.  He wonders if he should sneak out, wonders if that’s what… um… Hawke draws a blank on the elf’s name for a moment, and then remembers -  _ Fenris _ \- if that’s what he would want him to do.  Probably.  He gets up off the uncomfortable chair, noticing the stack of coins close to the puddle of spit on the table, the playing cards strewn about it’s surface.  As quietly as possible, he creeps to the closed door, hoping he can find his way out, that the apartment block doesn’t have too many security type things.  He lays his hand on the doorknob, twisting gently, when the handle turns suddenly in his hand and the door opens.  “Oh,” Fenris says, “You’re still here.”

“Good morning!” Hawke says brightly, then winces at the loudness of his voice.  “Uh.  Yes.  Still here.  Just trying to leave.  Very quietly, with a minimum of fuss.  If I broke anything or said anything phenomenally stupid last night, please accept my apologies.  Now… uh, I’m sure you have things to get on with.”

 

“No,” Fenris says simply, “Not really.”

Hawke is speechless for a moment, staring at Fenris.  Fenris looks at him, then frowns.  “What?”

Hawke can only gawp at him, then from somewhere outside himself, he hears his voice say, “Do you want to get breakfast then?”

Fenris shrugs, and then nods.  “Let’s go,” he says, and turns to stride away.  Hawke follows.

 

-|||-

 

He feels sweaty and ragged in the bright sunlight.  Kirkwall’s heat is unforgiving, even at this relatively early hour of the morning.  Fenris strides ahead of Hawke, his hands thrust into his pockets, shoulders rounded as if he carries the weight of the world upon them.  Hawke jogs a little to catch up, and smiles, asking “Where are we going?”

 

“Not far,” Fenris murmurs, then looks at Hawke quizzically. “Are you alright?”

_ No _ , Hawke thinks,  _ I feel like a dragon took a dump in my head.  And I think I might need a healer for my ribs.  Maker, why you gotta kick the little guy? _  “Fine,” he says aloud, then squints and shades his eyes with his hand, “Wish I’d bought my sunglasses though.”

Fenris smiles and gestures to a little shop front.  The sign is white with canary yellow trim, and the window is wide, displaying a vast array of beautifully made pastries, baked bright gold and lustrous with glaze.  Hawke’s stomach lurches at the sight of them, and then they are through the door.  The little shop is bustling, two women behind the counter grinning and talking with the customers who flock around them like so many bright birds.  The smell of it, all that sugar, the pâté sucrée, the baked custard, the candied fruit, Maker, it is overwhelming, and he swallows back bile, the pink and white and yellow interior of the shop seeming to send the whole room spinning, he looks down at Fenris to tell him, no he can’t, he can’t do it when everything comes rushing into his mouth.  Fenris looks at him, puzzled and alarmed, and Hawke claps a hand over his mouth, pushing past the Kirkwallers in the line, and staggers out of the shop again, the bell chiming cheerfully overhead.

 

Fenris finds him, ten minutes later, sitting on the curbside with his forehead resting on one hand and a cigarette burning in the other.  “Here,” the elf tells him, as he sits down beside Hawke, and thrusts a white paper take out cup at him.  “Drink this.  You’ll feel better.”

“That’s remarkably optimistic,” Hawke tells him, taking the cup.  He flicks the cigarette away, and sighs.  Taking a cautious sip from the cup, he tastes sweet black tea and smiles, before telling Fenris, “Thanks.”

 

Fenris grunts and digs into a white paper bag.  He pulls out a sticky-looking pastry, the glaze so thick his fingers indent into it, cracking the pristine surface.  Hawke watches as he smiles over it, and then Fenris devours the whole thing in three bites.  His cheeks bulge and he closes his eyes in satisfaction, chewing.  Hawke smiles, then asks, “Pretty good?”  Fenris nods, still chewing.  Finally, he swallows, gasps and sighs, then looks at Hawke.  

 

“You’re… odd,” Fenris tells him, and Hawke grins lopsidedly.  “I mean to say,” Fenris clears his throat and digs into the white paper bag again, producing another similar pastry, “I meant you’re not like other mages I’ve met.  You’re… different.  In a good way.”  He pauses, fingers pinching possessively into the sticky surface of the sweet, and asks, “Did you want some?”

 

Hawke shakes his head. Not only does he feel like he would barf before he got two bites into the pastry, he sees the relish on Fenris’ face as he bites once again into the pastry, chewing and swallowing more slowly this time around.  He wonders how much experience Fenris has had with mages; his way of speaking is formal, though there is no discernable accent to his voice.  He takes another sip of tea; it really is helping soothe his stomach.  

 

Fenris groans a little, and Hawke glances quickly at him, sees his eyes are closed again, concentrating on the taste of the pastry.  He wonders, briefly, what it would take to get Fenris into bed, what kind of noises he would make there, and looks away, into the traffic between the parked cars.  

 

He fishes his cigarettes from his pocket, more for something to do than anything else, and shuffles one out.  He looks quickly around himself and then cups one hand around the end of the cigarette, clicking his fingers for a flame.  Then he pretends to stow something in his pocket in case they are being watched.  Hawke breathes deep, sucking the smoke into his lungs, and then exhales. 

 

“My sons,” says a voice behind them, and they both turn quickly to see who it is who has addressed them.  It is a woman, attired in a long, maroon coloured skirt of some thick fabric which hangs awkwardly from her round hips and a plain, demure white blouse. Her hair is covered with a simple maroon and white cloth.  The only mark of authority on her is a bright gold necklace, made in the shape of a holy starburst - a symbol which only those who have attained the rank of Mother within the Chantry may wear.  She is staring at them, and Hawke raises his eyebrow, silently enquiring as to the interruption.  “My sons, if you have need of succour, seek it elsewhere than the streets of our fair city.  Kirkwall has ordinances against vagrancy, you know.”

 

She narrows her eyes at them, and Hawke smiles coldly in return.  He turns around more fully, almost facing her and asks, his voice soft and threatening, “You know, Mother, I think I like it here in the gutter.  Don’t you have Blight refugees and child apostates to harass?”

The woman looks affronted, drawing herself up and clutching at the starburst on its chain.  “I’m sure you’re familiar with the Word of our Maker’s Bride,  _ my son _ .  I wonder if your heathen friend can say the same?”

 

Hawke shakes his head and draws a deep breath.  He rises slowly, deliberately, and looks for a moment in silence at her.  She quails, and he watches as she swallows and takes a small step back.  He tells her, still in the same quiet, calm-but-threatening tone of voice, “ _ To you, my second born, I grant this gift; in your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame, all consuming and never satisfied. _ Recognise it?”

“Theredonies, chapter five, verse five,” she replies promptly, glowering, “But I do not…”

“When the Chantry manages to quench the fire of it’s own greed, and satisfy a few of the starving bellies in Darktown and the Alienage, then I’ll think about listening to what it has to say.  Until then, kindly fuck off, Revered Whatever.  I’m too hungover for your nonsense today.”

 

The look the woman gives Hawke is blistering.  She gathers her skirts and looks down her nose at him as passers by give them sidelong glances of interest.  “I’ve a mind to tell the guard of you,” the woman sneers, “Or perhaps the templars.  I’m sure they would be rather interested in your sort.”

“Someone has to be.  Maker knows the Chantry’s not,” Hawke returns, and the woman bristles, then turns haughtily away.  Hawke watches her retreating back for a moment, then turns, sighing as he sits back down next to Fenris.  He has not moved during this encounter, and Hawke hears a mixture of amusement and irritation in his tone when he asks, “Do you have no sense of your own self-preservation?”

 

“Vastly over-rated, that,” Hawke sniffs, and drags on his cigarette again.  The bastard thing is nearly gone, sucked dry by the greedy wind while he was talking with the Chantry bint, and he huffs in annoyance before grinding it under his heel.  Fenris smiles cryptically, and puts his hand down on the pavement.  Whether it is deliberate or not, their little fingers are touching, and Hawke feels a surge of excitement sing along his nerves.  He licks his lips and clears his throat.  “Hey.  So…”  He feels stupid, but he wants to ask, feels as if he needs to - there is still so much that intrigues him about Fenris.  Primary among these is the person that he’s beginning to get the shape of, the man he senses Fenris might be.  However, he has to admit he is almost painfully curious about Fenris’ music as well. Imperium have a terrible reputation for their artist contracts, but an amazing reputation for the quality of their recordings.  So he tries again, “Well, uh…”

 

“I’m going to see a few bands at the Hanged Man tomorrow night,” Fenris says blithely.  “The first band’s on at eleven, I think.  But for now…” And here he lifts his hands, brushing the grit from them lightly against his thighs, “I suppose I should get going.”

 

Hawke hopes desperately that he’s not misreading the reluctance in the tone of those last words, and blabbers, “Yeah, yeah, okay.  I guess I should get on too, and… and yeah, me too.  I’ll probably be there too, I mean.  Ha, what else do I have to do, right?”

“You could work on your F chord,” Fenris says quietly, so quietly that Hawke hardly hears him.  But when he registers what Fenris has said, he grins delightedly and barks a laugh.  

“Yeah, I guess I could.  Maybe I’ll… Maybe…”

“Yes,” Fenris tells him, looking down at Hawke where he still sits on the curb.  And Hawke looks up, trying to see the expression on his face, but all he sees is all that white hair, made glorious fire by the harsh Kirkwall sun.  “Maybe.”

 

-|||-

 

He lets himself in at about half past two.  The worst of the nausea has subsided, and his stomach is gurgling plaintively.  All Hawke wants is a fried egg, maybe some toast - instead, when he opens the unlocked front door, he gets a dubious chuckle from Gamlen.  The older man rises from the saggy brown settee, turns off the blaring television and says, “You’re for it now, kid.  Lea!” Gamlen turns to shout up the stairs, “Guess who the deepstalker dragged in!”

 

There is a slam of a door upstairs, and then his mothers voice.  “Taliesin Aristide Hawke!”  Her voice is strident, just this side of hysteria.  “Where in the Void have you been?  We didn’t know…”  She rounds the corner into the room and stops to clap a hand over her mouth.  Hawke takes a deep breath, mentally prepares himself while taking in the nondescript pink of her housecoat, the sleep-rumpled hair, “Hello, Mum.  Just out.”

 

“Out.  _ Out _ .  You’ve got quite a nerve.”  Leandra puts her hands on her hips, still standing in the doorway.  She looks him up and down, frowning at the sweat stains on last night’s clothes, the bruises and scrapes.  “You look like you spent last night tomcatting.  Honestly, Taliesin.  I thought we were past this.”

“Past what, exactly, Mum?  Can I at least have something to eat while you talk at me?”

“Past you behaving like a teenager.  You’re  _ supposed _ to be the lynchpin of the family.  You’re  _ supposed  _ to be setting an example for your younger brother and…” her brow creases for a moment, and Hawke looks at her, wondering if she’d suddenly remembered that Bethany is gone.   _ Whatever that doctor’s got her on is fucking up her reality pretty well _ , he thinks, and sighs.  Leandra blinks at him owlishly, then her eyes widen.  Gamlen walks between them, grinning entirely unsympathetically at him as he saunters through to the kitchen.  Hawke rubs his stomach, begins to follow Gamlen past his mother when she puts a hand on his chest, stopping him.  “Taliesin,” she asks softly, “You shouldn’t have encouraged him. He’ll only get hurt.”

 

“Encouraged who?  I only want a sandwich, Mum,” Hawke says, hearing the irritation under his tone.  Leandra is oblivious to it however, or at least pretending to be.  She pauses for a moment, then says, “Carver.  He said he had an audition with Last Warden Standing, that you’d supported him.  How could you?”

Hawke blinks.  “How could I what?  Mum, fuck sakes, tell me what you mean.  All this cryptic bullshit is…”

“He’s a  _ child _ , Taliesin!” Leandra hisses, her cheeks pink, flushed looking.  “He’s a child, and he’ll be utterly crushed when he finds they don’t want him.  He’s loved that silly band since he was fourteen and found out your father wrote that album with them.  How could you?”

Hawke laughs humourlessly, and finds he isn’t hungry any more.  Instead, his guts twist and seem to slide against each other, anger beginning to churn his insides.  “Mum…” he says quietly, “Firstly, Carver’s not a child.  He’s nineteen.  And he’s…”

“Nineteen’s still too young!  Oh, oh my baby, they’ll laugh at him, oh Carver…”

 

“Mum!  You’re just… look, you’re being stupid!” Hawke makes a huge effort and lowers his voice again, “Look, Al Theirin asked him to audition personally.  Do you have any idea what a big deal that is?  And… and I mean, you’re making it sound like… shit.”  Hawke looks at his mother in despair and asks, “You didn’t say any of this shit to Carv, did you?”

“I only told him the truth!” Leandra says, and he sees the tears standing in her eyes, and even through his anger he knows what it is she is afraid of, “They were probably just being nice!”

 

“Andraste wept,” Hawke says in amazement, “Mum… this… fuck… how… how could you say that?” He shakes his head and asks her, “Look, will you just stay here a minute? Is Carv here?”

“He’s in your room,” she tells him quietly, and then looks down at the floor.  He sees a tear fall, caught for a moment in the yellowish light of the lamps and then he is off, through the door and heading up the stairs, up to see his brother.

 

The room is dim when he enters, and he thinks for a moment that Carver must have gone out without Leandra noticing.  He knows she doesn’t notice much these days; too fogged by grief and medication.  He is about to leave again when Carver says softly from the gap between the two fold out beds, “She’s right.  He was just being nice.”

 

“Maker’s Arse,” Hawke mutters, and slams the door.  “Get up, Carv.  Please, please tell me you went to the audition.”

Carver rises slowly, and Hawke sees him nod his head.  “Yeah. I went.  Tal, it doesn’t matter, I fucked it, of course I did.”  He turns toward Hawke, and even in the dimness of the light, Hawke can see his eyes are puffy.  However, his voice is strong as he says, “I’m too young, Tal.  I don’t know anything about touring or tech or the gear… or anything.  Those guys won’t wanna tour with a kid in tow.  Doesn’t matter how good I’m not, not in the end.  I don’t fit.”

 

“Dude.  No.  No, Al asked you, he asked you  _ specifically _ ,” Hawke says, and he pushes his annoyance at their mother’s attitude down deep inside himself.  “He might seem a bit gormless, but he doesn’t seem like the type to lead you…”

 

There is an insectile chirping from the dresser and both men look in that direction.  Carver’s phone screen has lit up, and the little machine shimmies across the scratched wood veneer.  They stare at the phone for a few beats more, and then Hawke asks, “Are you gonna get that?”

“Nuh,” Carver says, still staring at the phone, “It’s them.”

“Fucking wimp,” Hawke says, and goes to grab the phone.  Carver lunges toward him, expression panicked, but he’s too late.  Hawke grips the phone, thumbs the call accept button and pushes Carver down onto the bed, putting a knee gently to his chest while he struggles, thrashing and reaching for the phone.  “Hello, Carver Hawke’s phone,” Hawke says politely.

 

“Hey!  Uh, hey… um… is that Cal?”

“No, it’s  _ Tal _ , but close enough.  Who’s this?”

“Uh, it’s Al Theirin, from Last Warden Standing.  Is Carver there?”

“Carver is…indisposed at the present time.” Hawke kneels harder on Carver for a second, covering the phone’s mouthpiece with his hand as he leans down and whispers, “Shurrup, can’t you see I’m on the  _ phone _ ?” while grinning at Carver, who whispers back furiously, “Gimme the fucking phone, asshole, otherwise I’ll tell everyone about that time you shoved a pencil in your dick for a dare, gimme the fucking  _ phone! _ ”

“Ugh, excuse me Alistair, it turns out Carver is here after all,” Hawke says airily into the receiver, and chucks it onto Carver’s chest.  Carver grabs it, sits up as Hawke releases the pressure and mutters, “Hey, Al.”

 

He listens for a moment, concentrating while Hawke watches him.  “Uh huh.  Uh huh.  Yeah.  Okay.  Yeah.  Got it.” A longer pause, and Carver looks at Hawke, his eyes narrowed.  Hawke frowns, watching him curiously, and then raises his eyebrows, mouthing the word  _ what? _  “Yeah,” Carver says finally, “Yeah.  Okay.  ‘Bye, Al.  ‘Bye.”

 

He hangs up the phone and sits, staring at it.  Hawke waits as long as he can, and then asks,  “So?  What did he say?”

Carver is silent still.  Just as Hawke is about to shake the news out of him by force if necessary, Carver looks up, and the light in his eyes makes Hawke grin, lets him know before Carver’s even said the words: “I got it.  Tal, I got the gig.  I got the fucking gig.”  He smiles and almost simultaneously, they rise, embracing each other like drowning men, though Hawke’s heart sinks at the thought that his brother will be leaving here, going off to make his own future.  He sighs over Carver’s shoulder and says, “Knew you would, baby bro.  I fucking knew it.”  He grins, relinquishing his hold on Carver, and says, “C’mon.  Let’s celebrate.”


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke feels as if he’s reeling, spinning from moment to moment, barely within the confines of control.  And what a feeling it is.  Isabela laughs under his arm, and Carver bellows something back, from further up the street.  The streets are thick with people: today is Friday, and in Kirkwall, that’s something to celebrate.  Maker knows, the city has little enough to celebrate these days.  

 

But with the revelry comes obligation.  It weighs heavy on Hawke, even through his drunkenness; the sight of a woman with a small child sheltering in a doorway, her grubby hand out to the passers by, who for the most part, ignore her.  As he watches, her hand flags slightly, and then the woman drops it, grimacing.  She rubs her eyes and smiles sadly at the kid, who only stares.  Hawke sighs, and tells Isabela, “Wait a sec.”

“For what?  C’mon, Tal,” she says, as he stops and digs in his pockets.  All he has are a few crumpled notes, small bills, and he feels awful it is not more.  “Hey,” he says, smiling slightly as he approaches the woman, who looks at him and cringes slightly.  He swallows, “Just… here you go.”

 

She accepts the money cautiously, and the kid grips her leg tighter, staring with large, overbright eyes up at Hawke.  “Sorry,” he tells her uselessly, and walks away.  Isabela is looking at him strangely, and as he approaches, asks, “What did you give her?”

“What do you think?” he asks in return, and laughs awkwardly.  “Come on, you.  Buy the good samaritan a drink.”

“I don’t do charity,” she says, and shakes her head.  “Hand outs do nobody any good, Tal.”

“Come on, Izzy.  Don’t pretend that underneath that bountiful bosom there’s a heart made entirely of iron.”  He grins and elbows her, and she slings an arm around his waist  again and smiles back. “Alright, alright.  If you tell anyone…”

He laughs, and mimes locking his lips, throws away an imaginary key.  “Promise.  Ruthless bitch, I got it.  I’ll never tell anyone otherwise.”

 

The Hanged Man is crowded, noisy.  It’s almost impossible to hear anything, and Hawke looks around, already looking for Fenris.  He’s got to be here - he said he would be. But the crowds are too thick, and moving around too much for him to be sure.  He sees a woman with long red hair, her face pink and focussed looking, talking to a dark haired man who is looking at her indulgently.  Hawke smiles -  _ aww, in love _ he thinks, and then keeps scanning.  Eventually though, he finds he must put it in the hands of fate - there are just too many people here, laughing, dancing and listening to the music.

 

Hawke moves to face the stage as Isabela goes to the bar.  He watches the band for a moment, and sighs; the pretty singer, sweating under the lights in the pale purple vest and baggy trousers feels to him as if she’s playing at being punk, rather than living it.  And this isn’t punk, or not really anyway - at best, it’s ska.   _ Excuse me, mister, you’ve got me all wrong _ , she sings, thrusting her hips forward and grinning through the words, sweat running down her face and ruining her make up,  _ You make it feel like a crime _ …  Her hair sticks to her forehead, the two plaits either side of her face shifting against her cheeks as she bounces up and down, and the bright zircons around her neck flash under the stage lights. Hawke cannot fault her stage presence, but… this is pop.  He leans a little between the bodies and sees the name  _ Left Hand _ on the drum kit.  He wonders a little at Fenris’ taste, and wonders if they’ll ever see each other again.  

 

Glancing around the space, he catches sight of Carver, talking to someone who he cannot see through the crowd.  He cocks his head, trying to see who it is, but Carver’s broad back completely obscures the person, and so he decides to wander over.  Once he reaches Carver, he touches him lightly on the shoulder and grins, “Oh!  You’ve found Merrill!  Well done you.”

“Hello!” Merrill sing-songs, and dives toward him, embracing him.  Hawke laughs, returning the hug and asks, “Are you always this cute, or is there a deep dark secret you’re hiding?”

“Oh, deep dark secret,” Merrill smiles up at him, “Definitely!”  She laughs and steps back, then looks at Carver, who rubs his neck.  

 

“Tal, hey… can I… can we talk to you?”

Hawke narrows his eyes suspiciously, “What about?”

“Uh… the band?”  Carver says, and looks at the ground, then fiercely up at Hawke again.  “Merrill’s going to take my spot.”

“Huh,” Hawke says, “Oh- _ kay _ … uh… what?”

“Is that okay?  I mean, I’ll audition!” Merrill chirps, looking worried, “I don’t want to step on toes or anything, but Carver said you’d need a drummer, and I’m a drummer, and… I’ve been looking for a band for a while, and…”

“You won’t need to audition, Merrill,” Carver says, glaring stonily at Hawke.  “She’s real good. She’s going to replace me.  You gotta carry on, Tal - you’re good, Fader’s good, and you’ll be even better with Merrill, and once you stop deluding yourself that you can sing, you’ll need someone to do that too.  I know you’re trying not to think about it, but you gotta.  I leave in three days.”  He pauses, frowning, “Why’re you being such a dick about it?”

 

_ Three days _ .  The reality of it hits him suddenly, in the space between his chest and stomach.  Three days, and Hawke will be alone in this city.  Three days, and the brother he’d grown up with, the one person he’d thought would always be there (no matter how much he’d wanted that not to be true sometimes), would be gone.  Making his own life.  Getting famous.  And for the first time since Carver and Bethany were born, Hawke would have to make his own way.   _ Are you jealous _ ? He asks himself, but it’s not that - or not all that.  His jaw clenches, and he folds his arms.  Carver is looking at him, brow furrowed, and Merrill is watching him nervously.  Finally, Hawke says, “I’m not being a dick.  I’m just wondering what gives you the right to decide who our drummer is?  You’re not in the band anymore.  Izzy and I will…”

 

“We’ll what?  Oh, hello baby-Hawke… and  _ hello _ , kitten.”  Isabela smirks at the elf, who grins broadly back at her.  “Here,” Isabela says to Hawke and hands him a pint without looking away from Merrill.  She looks a little predatory in the yellow and red lights of the dim pub, and Hawke frowns slightly.  “Merrill’s going to join Fader,” Carver informs her, and she nods.  

“Cool,” Isabela says, and takes a drink.  Hawke gapes at her, open mouthed.

 

“That’s it?  Izzy, shit, we’ve never heard her play, Carver isn’t even in the band any more and you’re…”

“I’m what?” Isabela rounds on Hawke and glares at him.  “I  _ have _ heard her play.  Four times.  Twice at the Sewer, as a ring in - once from the floor, if you can believe it, and twice at the Bone Pit.  Aside from that, Merrill practically holds that place together.  If you pulled your finger out and actually got informed about the scene here, you’d know how much of an asset Merrill would be.  But that’s not going to happen, because you’re off chasing tail instead of working on your shit, Hawke.  She’s in.  If you’ve got anything more to say about it, then perhaps you ought to think about taking your stupid band name and your stupid face somewhere else.”

 

“Oooh, no, no,” Merrill says, and they turn to her.  “I don’t want to.  I don’t want to be the cause of this.  It’s okay.  I’ll find my own place, thank you so much Carver, and Izzy, but… I… I just…”

“Don’t listen to this jerk,” Carver tells her pleadingly, “C’mon, Merrill…”

“No, it’s fine, really,” Merrill says, shaking her head and backing away.  “I… I guess I’ll see you guys around?  No, I’m fine, really…”  She laughs shakily, and turns, virtually fleeing into the crowd.  Carver glares at Hawke, then turns without speaking to follow Merrill.    

 

“You shit.  You utter shit, Hawke,” Isabela sighs.  “Get a fucking clue.  If this is how Fader’s going to be, with you calling the shots and nobody else getting a look in, count me out.”  She shakes her head and looks at him pityingly.  “Trust that Carver knows what he’s talking about on this one, and at least give Merrill a shot.  And… just try not to be such a cunt.”

Hawke looks at her, feeling miserable.  “‘Kay,” he says quietly, hardly audible over the din of the music and the crowd noise, and he looks at the floor.  “‘Kay, I will.  But I’m not doing it for you, or her.  I’m doing it for Carv.”

“Whatever,” Isabela says, and shrugs, turning to the stage.  “These dudes are a bit shit, aren’t they?”

 

“Uh huh,” Hawke agrees, and they watch as the lead singer laughs again into the microphone.   _ There’s just something about you… that gets me in a twist.  And sometimes I think that Cupid… is just taking the piss  _ she sings and shakes out her hair again.  The song is slow, mostly, but the chorus is kind of punchy, aiming for threatening.  But still, it would be even more of an over-reach to call this pop-punk even.   _ She looks like a Chantry girl vamping as a badass, _ Hawke thinks, who is now just waiting for the next band.  He can’t wait to get out of here, is beginning to suspect that Fenris is either not here at all or engaged elsewhere.   _ Maybe _ , he hears in that low, seductive voice, sees the beautiful halo the sun had made out of Fenris’ hair again in his mind.   _ Fuck it _ , he thinks and shakes his shoulders, trying to get into it.  He looks around himself and spots Varric laughing with… oh.  So that’s where he is.  Despite the bad start to the evening, and his despondency of only a moment before, Hawke cannot help but smile, and without a word, he walks over to the place where they’re standing.

 

“Hawke!  Hey, did you guys meet?  This is the Lycanthrope, or… ha,” Varric laughs and shrugs, “Fenris.  You heard his stuff?”

“We’ve met,” Fenris tells Varric, who raises an eyebrow.  

“At the Sewer,” Hawke says vaguely, in answer to Varric’s unspoken question.  “Couple of nights ago.  I… uh, didn’t catch that though.  What did you call him?”

“Lycanthrope.”  Fenris sighs and looks askance.  “It’s a stage name, of sorts.”

 

“Oh… oh!” Hawke says, and his eyes go round.  “Shit!  They did a huge write up on you not that long ago for Ax magazine! But there was only a fancy sillhouette photo - it’s the first time I’ve ever seen a photo of you at all.  You came to Denerim a couple of years ago on tour and I couldn’t afford to go, but shit man, I…” he clears his throat, aware that he is rambling.  “Holy fuck.  You’re that guy.”

Fenris chuckles and raises an eyebrow at Hawke’s outburst.  “I am  _ that guy _ .  Don’t believe everything you read in the magazines, though, Tal.”

 

“Yeah, alright,” Hawke says.  His mouth feels very dry.  Fenris… _ Lycanthrope _ … everyone knows about him.  Outside of Tevinter, he had achieved success in a way that no other Imperium act had had; his second album,  _ Master Mine _ , had gone triple platinum - over three million units sold.  This had had a flow over effect to his earlier work,  _ These Lines of Power _ , which in its turn went double platinum.  However, for years there had been strange rumours about Lycanthrope and his relationship with his manager, Danarius.  An impresario figure, Danarius kept Lycanthrope away from the press, strictly controlling every aspect of his public appearances.  There was also the proof in the sheer volume of workload on the artist - almost constantly touring, Lycanthrope had released his first two albums within three years; his third,  _ Bait and Switch _ had come out this year, to a great degree of critical acclaim.  Hawke frowns, thinking. “Hey,” he says, “Bait and Switch…”

 

“Ooh, are we talking shop?” Varric grins and takes a little pocket recorder out, laying it on the table in front of him.  “I gotta get this…”

“That will be useless in here,” Fenris tells him scornfully, and Varric looks affronted.

“Bianca’s never useless, and I’ll thank you for keeping your opinions to yourself.  She earns her keep, my girl.”

Hawke ignores Fenris’ confused expression, and leaps in with, “Yeah, yeah, so on the liner notes for Bait and Switch, it had that it was a Freedom Music-slash-Imperium Records production… what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Freedom Music,” Hawke says exasperatedly.  “Did you… what  _ is _ that?”

“My label,” Fenris says, and he smiles.  It’s a strange smile though - tense, satisfied, and a little scary all in one.  “I found a contractual clause and exploited it.  It was complicated, and… not pretty.”  He runs a hand through his hair and shrugs.  “I will tour this album, and then I’m going to leave Imperium.  I don’t care how many lawyers  _ he _ sends.  I’m not going back.”

“Maker,” Hawke says in awe.  He’d thought Fenris was amazing before he’d known all this.  But now… the bright flare of raw want in his chest almost floors him and he swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat.  He wants Fenris all the harder because of this new information - wants and admires him in almost equal measure.

 

“So, Hawke,” Varric says, and Hawke stirs out of his reverie.  “I hear you’re needing a drummer as well as a vocalist now. Like rats from a sinking ship, huh?  You gonna go see that guy from the Clinic play, maybe see about poaching him?”

“Fader’s not  _ sinking _ , Varric. No and no - we haven’t been to see this alleged vocalist, and we don’t need a drummer,  _ apparently _ .”  Hawke takes a breath and wishes he’d kept the resentment out of his voice, as Varric looks at him quizzically.  “Carver’s got the gig with LWS, and took it upon himself to ask Merrill.”

“Carver got the gig!  Shit!  That’s amazing news… fuck, where is he?  Aw man, I gotta set up a chance to chat with him about that, that’d be a scoop.”  Varric looks around, then asks Hawke, “You get him to come see me, okay?  Before he goes?  If I don’t catch him?

Hawke sighs.  “Yeah, alright.  And Daisy’s gonna replace him?  Shit, good call.”  Varric narrows his eyes up at Hawke, who smiles wanly back.  “I get the feeling that you weren’t real happy with this turn of events?  Is that to do with Carver’s departure, or Merrill?”

 

“No, no, happy and fine, look at me, all smiles,” Hawke says, and grins.  Well, he shows his teeth, and Varric rolls his eyes.  “Very fuckin’ convincing.  Now, as much as I love your dulcet tones, I gotta go.  Seek Truth, O Maker’s Children! are on next, and I’m meant to be talking to that Pentaghast chick afterwards.  She scares me bald, so I gotta go in armed with smart things to say.”

“Are you writing for Everite?” Fenris asks, and Varric shakes his head.

“Nah… this is for Philliam, man.  Kinda weird - I worked my ass off on that Golden Mirror puff piece, and it musta paid off, because they gave me… oh, shit, I better go…”

 

Varric rises quickly and lumbers forward, through the crowd to the front of the stage, pushing his way through. There is a strange hush that comes over the crowd as a blonde man, muscular and aristocratic looking, stalks to the front.  He is immediately followed by a man with shoulder length hair and a goatee, and then a woman, all in black, short, dark hair styled carelessly.  The woman looks haughty, bored almost as she slings her guitar strap over her head.  The crowd quiets in anticipation.  A fine, high harmonic rakes through the speakers after a minute more of the strange hush, and a susurrus rushes over the drums.  It is beautiful, delicate and atmospheric, and Hawke leans down slightly to whisper in Fenris’ ear, “Who are these guys?”

“Seek Truth, O Maker’s Children!  Weren’t you listening to Varric?”

“Yeah, I was, but I meant…  _ what _ are these guys?  Grindcore? Thrash? Crust punk? Doom?”

 

“Post-metal, maybe math,” Fenris says, then shakes his head at Hawke, silencing him.  Hawke watches as the lead singer puts both hands on the microphone, one over the other and pulls it toward him slightly, angling the stand.  The rhythm guitar begins and the sound is crushing, brutal, laden with overdrive, but then the lead, the woman’s guitar arcs over the top of it, creating a spiralling octave of notes, a ladder, a desperate climb.  Ever so slightly discordant, the two guitars seem to battle each other for sonic space, then back off and circle around each other, as if looking for a weakness.  The tempo pitches and shifts uneasily, now elephantine and halting, now frantic.  The control that this exhibits -  _ and this is their first track! _ thinks Hawke, as the music climbs and climbs toward who knows what - is impressive to say the least.  To manage these awkward timing shifts, without a single falter, they must have an almost preternatural accord with one another.  Either that, or they have no lives and spend their days practicing again, and again and again.

 

The singer - can this be called singing? - pushes the mic stand forward, straddling it as he looms out over the audience, his eyes squeezed shut.  And it goes on and on, this one song, shifting and pitching, seemingly chaotic but not, the four musicians on stage beginning to sweat under the harsh overheads.  Hawke watches the lone woman on stage, and he figures that she must be this  _ Pentaghast chick _ that Varric is so nervous about interviewing.   _ Doesn’t look so tough to me _ , he thinks, admiring the way her fingers move over the fretboard of her guitar with surety and grace. 

 

Still, the song is long.  As impressive as the musical talent on display is, Hawke soon grows bored.  He looks around the dim confines of the Hanged Man, red painted walls, neon beer advertisements, the crowd a strange mixture of scenesters, scum bags and socialites.  No wonder Varric likes it here.  He thinks he catches a glimpse of Carver, just for a moment through the crowd, but then Hawke looks properly and sees that no, it’s not him after all.  Hawke’s eyes wander - there’s Isabela, standing under the proprietary arm of a man with long, dark hair.  She catches him looking at her and winks, then raises and eyebrow and points at Fenris.   _ Nice! _ she mouths, and he grins at her, waggling his eyebrows.  He looks back at Fenris, who is concentrating intently on the figures on stage.  The red light plays in his hair, turning it a shining pink, glints from the silver rings in his ear.  Idly, Hawke wonders how Fenris would react if he tried to put an arm around him.  Hopefully, not with a fist to the face, but it’s the possibilities which keep things exciting.  For a moment, he almost attempts it - he feels the weight of his own arm, the muscles tensed… but in the end he cannot.  He wants to do something though, anything to recall Fenris’ attention back to himself, so he bends slightly and puts his lips close to Fenris’ ear to say loudly, “Going to get a beer.  Want one?”

 

Fenris smiles, glancing at Hawke briefly.  “Wine?  Red,” he asks, and Hawke frowns slightly. 

“Sure,” he says, and before he realises what he’s doing, he pecks Fenris’ cheek.  The skin is smooth, soft under his lips.   _ Shit! _ he thinks, but says aloud, “Be right back.”

 

He scarpers before Fenris can say or do anything.  Pushing through the crowds, he comes face to face with Isabela.  She grabs him by the t-shirt, hauling him toward her and yelling as she does, “Send him my way when you balls it up!”

“Fuck off,” is all Hawke can come up with, and Isabela laughs and releases him.  He grimaces at her, rolls his eyes heavenward and pushes on.

 

Standing at the bar, listening with half an ear, he shifts from foot to foot nervously.  The music isn’t helping - the drone, the weight of it, it goes on and on.  It seems to take forever for him to get served, and by the time he is threading his way back towards where he had left Fenris, his stomach is a ball of tension.   _ You barely know him! _ he hears Carver’s voice in his head, astonished, irritated, and grins - he’s fucked guys on less information than this before. Is that all he wants from Fenris? A quick fuck?  It doesn’t feel that way, but then, it doesn’t do to get ahead of oneself either.  Hawke scans around the space, and his stomach drops.  He’s lost Fenris.  Wildly, he looks around, wine sloshing over his wrist and he curses, pushing forward again.  But no, there he is, his eyes closed, an enraptured look on his face.  Hawke breathes again, and pushes the rest of the way through the crowd.  

 

He sets the pint on the tiny ledge they are next to, and touches Fenris lightly on the shoulder.  The elf opens his eyes slowly, as if he is coming out of a dream, and he looks - so perfect, so serene, here in the light of this skuzzy bar, the red, womblike warmth of the light shining in his hair and glinting in the depths of his eyes, that Hawke is lost.  Fenris smiles, takes the glass and nods his thanks.  Hawke smiles back.

 

-|||-

 

“It’s not necessary, Hawke.”

“I know that, but, okay, hear me out, right, what if…”

“What if nothing,” Fenris smiles, but there is a hint of warning in it too, “I will be fine.  I’ve walked through the city at night by myself before.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hawke says petulantly, and looks away.  He sighs and looks back at Fenris, who seems puzzled.  They are standing under the traffic lights at the intersection of Lafaille and Krayvan; Lafaille Boulevard goes uphill, into Hightown, while Krayvan Street follows a winding route over the cliffs and deeper into Lowtown and the Alienage.  After Seek Truth, O Makers Children! had finished playing, Fenris had gestured Hawke closer, told him that he was going to go. Hawke agreed - he would have agreed to almost anything at that point.  As they had walked through the city, the light pollution dulling all but the brightest of the stars and the sombre quarter moon, they had talked.  Mostly just light things - the lead singer of Left Hand, who Fenris said was thinking about leaving White Chant to start a new label, the kinds of music they liked.  But when Hawke had asked what had made Fenris want to pick up a guitar in the first place, the elf had shaken his head and looked away, falling silent.  By then, they had reached the intersection, and it was here that Fenris had stopped.

 

The traffic lights cycle from red to green and orange and back again, and still, Fenris says nothing, just regarding Hawke seriously.   _ Idiot _ , Hawke tells himself, cursing his big mouth - Fenris is more than capable of protecting himself, and he knows that, but… He just wants any excuse to keep next to Fenris.   _ Pathetic _ , he says, knows it is true but cannot find it in himself to care.  He looks at his shoes, then up at Fenris again, who is looking at him, his eyes narrowed.  He finally asks Hawke, “Did you want to come home with me?”

 

Hawke swallows, hard.  “Maker’s Arse, I thought you were going to make me beg.”  He nods, “Yeah, yeah, I do.”  He smirks slightly, and says, “I don’t think I could have been any less subtle, right?”

Fenris’ eyes narrow, and he shakes his head.  “I doubt it very much,” he says, and smiles strangely.  The lights change again.  Fenris shifts, and regards Hawke again.  Hawke frowns.   _ Is he… is he going to hit me? _ he wonders, and then Fenris is advancing on him, two quick paces, reaching up to pull Hawke’s head toward his own, his grip strong on Hawke’s neck, on his waist.  Hawke simply reacts, his arms opening to Fenris, bending down as he is obliged to by the firm hand on the back of his neck, involuntarily pushed back into the pole holding the traffic light aloft by Fenris’ forward momentum.  The kiss is fierce, and soft - Fenris’ lips taste of wine and sugar, of something wondrous which can only be Fenris himself.  Hawke opens his mouth a little, and Fenris’ tongue is there, oh Maker, he can hardly breathe with the thrill of it, this is it, this is it, Fenris is kissing him, here at the traffic lights and shit he is hard, or getting that way at least, he wants this man like  _ fire _ , like  _ air _ , he pants rapidly and plunges back into the kiss.  Dimly, he hears a horn tooting, wolf whistles, but who cares for that, this is what’s important, the hand on his neck, the sweet-sour taste of this beautiful man, the way his heart is beating as if it will burst.  

 

Finally, Fenris pulls back.  His nostrils flare as he looks up at Hawke, and he smiles slightly.  “I hope I haven’t made your walk home very uncomfortable,” he says, and Hawke swears he hears a tease under the faux-regretful tone and grins.  

“Terribly,” he says huskily, “I’ll barely make it.  Your place is much closer.”

Fenris’ smile widens, and he shakes his head.  “A kiss will suffice, for tonight.  Or at least, it will have to.  Can… Will you come out tomorrow?”

Hawke nods.  He feels barely able to catch his breath, and he says, “Anything.  Wherever you are, I’ll be there.”

Fenris smiles again, rather sadly, Hawke thinks.  “Alright.  I’ll give you a call.”

“‘Kay,” Hawke murmurs, and squeezes Fenris’ waist.  “Are you sure you don’t want to..?”

Fenris chuckles.  “No,” he says simply, “I’m not sure at all.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  
He backs slowly away from Hawke, tentative steps, not turning around.  “Yeah,” Hawke says, making no effort to move himself.  “Yeah, alright.”  He senses that if he pushes, Fenris will change his mind - but there is also something in him which is unwilling to push too hard.  He wants this burning ache, this desire, and he smiles slowly as Fenris raises his hand in farewell.  “I’ll call you,” Fenris tells him, and then turns quickly, crossing the road, shoving his hands in his pockets as he does.  Hawke waits, watching as Fenris finishes crossing the road, and disappears into the darkness.  “Yeah,” he says to no-one, “I’ll be waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music notes for this chapter:   
> That is indeed Leliana up on stage as the lead singer for Left Hand! The songs that they're performing are both by No Doubt - _Excuse Me, Mr._ is from the album Tragic Kingdom, and _In My Head_ is from the album Rocksteady. 
> 
> Seek Truth, O Makers' Children! are performing a song by Krallice, called _Tyranny of Thought_ , from the album Ygg Hurr. In pretty much no universe would Krallice ever be playing a gig with No Doubt, but I put this down to the fact that Cassandra and Leliana are friends, and things at White Chant are getting messy at this stage in the 'verse. Seek Truth are signed to a subsidiary label of White Chant, Redoubt, but as the interior disintegration of the labels managerial structure happens fast during this time... um... hang on, I'm starting to feel a bit like George Lucas even typing that sentence, because big business WHO CARES? but... eh. I'm... gonna stop blabbering about headcanons now. But yeah, suffice to say that that impacts other bands too, and if you've read Wastelands, that speech at the end that Samson gives Cullen is a lot about this period of White Chant Music's history.
> 
> *clears throat, blushes profusely* Heh. Okay. As you were.


	6. Chapter 6

 

“Baby bro!” Hawke calls, distraught.  “Where are you?”

Nothing.  Just the vastness.  He can hear ravens in the distance, picking at the wheat, squabbling over it, and the old windmill clanking in the light wind.  Everything feels dead; he hears nothing in reply - not an echo, not any sign of life at all.  “Carver!” he tries again, “Carver, this isn’t funny any more!”

 

_ Mum’s gonna kill me _ , he thinks, and shoves his way forward.  Is it this thought which gives him a strange feeling of watchedness, an almost overwhelming compulsion to run?  The light is strange, like an overcast day, pallid, but when he looks up to see how the sun has moved, all he sees is wheat, wheat forever, as far as he can see.  He shudders, pushing on.   _ Don’t look for me _ , a voice whispers, and he stops.  “Who… who was that?” he calls, trying desperately not to let the fear in his voice ring.  “Who’s there?”

 

Desperate now, he pushes through the wheat again, the dry crackle of the leaves seeming to echo.  “Carver!” he calls again, and the wheat seems to suck in his words, bloat them, whisper them back to him mockingly.  “Carver!”  He pushes more wheat aside, faster now, and hears a rustle ahead of him.  “Carver!  Come on, where are you?”  The rustle comes closer, it’s coming toward him, and he thinks,  _ Oh Maker, it’s Carver, it’s Carver, _ but it is accompanied with such an all encompassing dread that he stops in his tracks.   _ Don’t let him find me _ , the thought rises within him, and then suddenly, Carver is there, gripping his shoulders, face almost unrecognisable, swollen, blackened with bruising and blood, his breath rank, seemingly everywhere, smiling at Hawke with broken teeth as he whispers  _ You let me go, Tal, you let me go, I tried to help you and you wouldn’t let me, and you let me go, it’s all your fault Tal allyourfaultall YOURFAULTHOWCOULD YOU you you you  _

_ you let me go _

 

He wakes up, stifling the scream.  It takes him a moment to realise that he’s not in Lothering, not in the wheatfields there, outside the little town.   _ You let me go _ , the Carver in his mind whispers, an echo of a dream, and he shivers.  Without realising it, he looks at the other bed, the one next to his.  Empty.  Just as it was when he went to sleep.  His heart sinks, and his gaze falls on the almost empty bottle next to the bed.  He leans down, picks it up by the neck and unscrews the cap, relishing the distinctive sound the thin metal makes against the glass.  The taste of the whiskey is raw, dark and brutal, the smell in his nose, the taste of it.  He gags over it, clamping a hand over his mouth and forces himself to swallow.  Better.  That’s better.

 

Noon comes and goes, and still he lies in bed.  Carver went two days ago.  A week, that means, a week since he last saw Fenris.   _ I’ll call you _ , Fenris had told him, and like a fool, Hawke had believed him.  He sighs, takes another drink.  Carver had been stoic in the face of their mother’s entreaties to stay, but in the end, Hawke had threatened to shut her in her room.  “You can’t keep me from him!  He’s my baby!” Leandra had moaned, and Carver had looked so frustrated, so guilty, that Hawke had opened his mouth to say more.  Gamlen had intervened instead, put his hand on Leandra’s arm to say, “Lea, look.  The boys are growing up.  Carver’ll be gone for two months, and then he’ll be back, right as rain.  Right, boy?”

“Right,” Carver agreed readily enough, sounding relieved.  Hawke takes a deep breath, remembering how his mother’s hands had shaken as she embraced Carver one last time, how meek she was as Gamlen led her up the stairs to lie down.  He clenches his jaw and sighs.  Dimly, from the house below, he hears voices.  “Taliesin?” his mother's voice calls up the stairs, “There’s someone here for you.”

 

“‘Kay!” Hawke yells, and throws the blankets off his legs, swinging them out of the bed quickly.   _ Oh Maker, oh Maker, is it Fenris?  _  His heart leaps, even as part of his more rational mind wonders how Fenris could have known where he lives, what on earth possessed him to come here.  He throws on an old sweatshirt and tries desperately to crush his sleep-addled hair as he goes quickly out the door and takes the stairs two at a time.  Standing there, beaming nervously at him, is an elf - he blinks, and he knows his face falls.  “Oh.  Merrill,” he sighs and his shoulders sag.  “Hey.”

 

“Hello!” she sing-songs, her tone fighting to conceal her nerves.  “Izzy asked me to see if you were awake yet!  And look, you are!  Ooh,” she says, coming in for a hug and backing off quickly again, “Bit smelly yet.  Um.  Maybe a shower?  Are you gonna come with us tonight?  And I didn’t know your name was Taliesin!  How lovely.  Is it a family name?  Mrs Hawke, I love your house!  It’s so big!  And you look so pretty in that pink… thingee.  What is that?”  She’s looking at Leandra now, who stares at her vacantly, then smiles.  “This?  It’s called a housecoat, dear.  This one’s seen better days, I’m afraid.”

 

“Ooh, no it looks lovely!” Merrill gushes, and Leandra beams.  

“Oh, Taliesin, where have you been hiding this one?  She’s so nice,” she asks, looking from Merrill, still standing awkwardly in the doorway, to Hawke.  Merrill grins.  “We’re in a band together!  I play drums, Mrs Hawke!  Oh.  Uh, well, Tal… I mean,  _ Taliesin _ ,” she giggles, then sobers, “He hasn’t really seen me play, but Carver said I could have his place, since he’s gone to Last Warden Standing now?  That was so cool, wasn’t it?  Oh.”  She looks at Leandra, and puts a hand to her mouth, “Did… did I say the wrong thing?”

 

Leandra has tensed, and is looking suddenly at the floor.  “Taliesin,” she says quietly, still not looking up, “Dear, please remember your manners and ask your friend if she’d like anything from the kitchen.  I’m… I’ll just be… upstairs.”

She shuffles toward the stairs, her slippers scuffing on the worn carpet.  Hawke regards her with concern, then flicks his gaze at Merrill, and shakes his head, trying to indicate that it’s alright, “Right, mum.  Do you want a cup of tea or anything?  I can bring it up?”

“No, no, dear,” she tells him, and sighs.  “I’ll be fine.”

 

They hear her mounting the stairs, and Hawke sighs.  “Sorry, dude.  Mum’s been… in a bit of a bad way lately.”

Merrill nods, her expression concerned and sad.  “I’m so sorry, Tal.  I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

He shakes his head again, beckons her to follow him into the kitchen.  “‘S’alright,” he says, “There’s nothing much anyone seems to be able to do for her.  I think she needs… I dunno, a distraction or something.  Maybe if she got out and met some people?  But…” he shrugs.  “Wanna cup of coffee?  Or tea?”

“Could I have just hot water, please?” she smiles at him, and he snorts and smiles back as he fills the kettle at the sink.  “Yeah, alright, you weirdo.  Are you sure?  Just hot water?”

 

“That’s not weird, Tal.  Or do you like Taliesin better?  I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that was your name.”

“Nah, I hate my name.”  Hawke frowns, “I think it sounds like someone - Mum, probably - thought way too hard about it.  It sounds so  _ poncey _ , and my full name’s even worse.”  He puts his nose in the air, tries not to smirk and says snootily, “Taliesin Aristide Hawke.”

Merrill giggles.  “It is quite fancy.”  There is a moment of silence in the house, and then Merrill asks quietly, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

 

Hawke thinks.  “No,” he says, hesitantly.  “But I guess it depends what it is.  I’m not giving you my bank account number, if that’s what you’re after.” He spoons sugar and instant coffee into his cup and smiles, “Not that I’ve got any money to steal anyway.”

Merrill gives him a worried look.  She appears to think for a moment, then says, “Do you really not want me to join your band?  Is it because you don’t like me?”

Hawke relaxes, blows out a breath.  “Nah,” he says, “I just…” he shrugs, “I just feel weird about Carv replacing himself.  I guess.  It’s… too soon.  I like you fine, Merrill.  You’re my kind of weirdo.”  He tries a laugh, and then shrugs again when it fails.  “Look, dude.  You seem like a cool cat and everything… but I just… don’t see the fit, I guess?  I’m sorry,” he adds, then rubs a hand over his stubble, “But Izzy vouches for you, and I shoulda learned to trust her judgement on this stuff by now.”  He sighs and continues, “Pay me no mind, Merry.  I'm sorry I was a dick to you the other day.  I sorta feel like everything I touch is turning to shit lately.  Maybe I don’t wanna drag you down with me.”

 

“Oh, please,” Merrill says, and smiles.  “It can’t be that bad!  Okay, yes, Carver’s gone, but he’s not gone forever!  And… well, now, I mean, if we… If we try this thing, with me joining, and… oh!” she says, her eyes lighting up as if she has remembered something, “That’s what Izzy wanted me to say!  She said that Varric told her that the Clinic is playing tonight, at the Sewer, and we should go talk to their lead singer before anyone else snaps him up.  She said to tell you to get your sorry ass - that’s her words, not mine, I don’t know what would make your ass sorry…” she trails off as if trying to imagine it and then shakes herself, “Uh… what was I talking about?  Oh! Okay, so we’ll meet at the Hanged Man, maybe, and go see the Clinic play, and you can bring that cute elf you were with the other night - again, her words, not mine, I don’t know what elf she’s talking about - and… uh, yes!  And we can ask him to be in Fader.  Not the elf!  The Clinic guy.  And then we can  _ call _ it Fader without it sounding like just your thing, because I hear he’s a mage too!  I’m a mage,” she adds proudly, then takes a deep breath in and grins.  

 

Hawke laughs, in spite of the drop in his stomach when the phrase _the cute elf you were with the other night_ leaves Merrill’s lips.  He looks at the scratches on the kitchen counter, thinking.   _You know, you could always call him_ , he tells himself, and almost laughs again.  Surely Fenris wouldn’t welcome that.  And anyway, he’s a big star, he’s probably got groupies everywhere; surely he doesn’t need or want Hawke.  That’s probably the reason for him not calling.   _He gave you his number_ _for a reason though_ , the same part of his mind tells him and he frowns, shoves the thoughts aside.  “Yeah,” he tells Merrill, “Yeah, alright then! That sounds really good.”  He nods, and Merrill beams.  “Aw, that’s great!  I’ll tell Izzy then.  Okay, well, I better dash - I wanted to see if the food bank was open and…”

“Wait.  What?  Why’re you going to the food bank?” The words are out of Hawke’s mouth before he knows what he’s saying, and immediately he shakes his head at himself.  “Shit.  I’m sorry, I just…”

 

“Oh, it’s no big deal.”  Merrill grins, and tells him, “There’s not enough food.  My neighbour in the Alienage has, like, five kids?  I think? They’re so lovely, the little girl is really clever with her hands, and the boys are just charming.  But…” she frowns slightly, then shrugs, “There’s just not enough.  There’s no work at the moment; if people can get away with it, they’d rather hire humans, and… and… with the refugees…” She trails off, looks at him guiltily.  “I know it would have been really scary, and they’re trying to build lives here.  But… we’re Kirkwallers too.  The state’s got nothing for us.  And I know the refugees have it bad - the Alienage borders on Darktown, and I’ve seen… well, some dreadful things.  But no one helps elves.  We’re invisible.”  She sighs, and looks at him sadly for a moment, before drawing herself up to her full height, “So we help ourselves.  We don’t steal, but we support each other.  So I’m going to the food bank to exchange stamps I made for food.  I made them on a photocopier at the library, and then made them look as official as I could with some of Arvaard’s art supplies.  It’s worked before, no reason to think it wouldn’t work again.”  She looks stricken, and says, “Don’t tell, okay?”

 

“Bloody hell, Merrill. You’re… you’re awesome.”  Hawke blinks at her and grins.  “I’d never tell.  You need any help, you let me know.”

“Really?  Aw, Hawke, you don’t…”

“No, look, hang on…”  Hawke opens the pantry and considers; then he takes a large bag of apples and a box of fresh donuts that Gamlen had been looking forward to all day from the shelf.  He puts them on the bench, then grabs a bag of flour and a bag of milk powder, a few tins of beans.  “Hawke, what are you doing?” Merrill laughs.

 

“Maker,” Hawke mutters, and fishes under the sink for a plastic bag.  He starts loading the stuff into it, and tells Merrill, “This sucks, but it’s the best I can do.  For now, alright?  But there’s no way that I’m going to have anyone have to throw themselves on Chantry mercy.  If your little art project works, then that’s awesome… but at least, if it doesn’t, at least no-one’ll be going hungry tonight.  I’ll drop this stuff off at your house, if you want, while you’re out.”

Merrill frowns in disbelief, and says, “But… it’s the Alienage.  Will you go with someone else?  I mean, it can be a bit… dangerous.  You know.  For sh… humans.”

“I’ll throw a donut at them,” Hawke tells her, and grins.  “Now get outta here, you.  You’ve got fraud to commit.”

She grins, and sketches him a salute from the other side of the counter.  He leaves off packing, and goes to the front door to open it for her, and she promptly runs forward, embracing him.  “Steady on,” he tells her, smiling at the top of her head.  “No need to get all mushy.”

“Tal, thank you.  You’re… thank you for being so nice.  And for being honest with me, I mean…”

“Merrill, Sweet Andraste’s Freckled Buttcheeks, could you not?  It’s a shitty situation, okay?  And… look, refugees, elves, apostates…  I mean, we’re all fucked, pretty much, so if we don’t help each other, what kind of world is that to live in?  Go on,” he smiles as she looks up at him.  He hates this feeling - he doesn’t want to be a hero, he didn’t do it for that reason.  It had just felt the right thing to do.  “Go on,” he repeats, “Get out of here.”

 

-|||-

 

An hour later, and he’s still staring at his phone.  He’s keyed in the number that Fenris had given him three times, only to have it ring once before he hangs up.   _ Chickenshit _ , he berates himself,  _ You’ve got no balls.  Come on, man, what’s the worst he’s going to say?  Oh no, Maker, don’t think about that… _ He takes a deep breath, punches in the last two digits with shaking hands, and hits the call button, smiling vacantly at the wall opposite.   _ Pick up, pick up, pick up _ , he chants, and then there is a moment of silence before he hears a faint whirr.

 

“Leave your name and state your business and we may return your call,” the disembodied voice tells him.  It is unctuous, rich - but also vaguely sinister, and clearly not Fenris’.  However, the message is so short that Hawke has no time to collect his thoughts before the electronic chime is in his ear, and he stumbles out on instinct, “Uh, hello?  This is Tal Hawke, but, uh, I guess I have the wrong…”

 

A click, and then Fenris’ voice.  “Hawke?  Fenhedis, is that really you?”  He sounds exhausted, out of breath, but Hawke grins into the phone all the same.  “Fenris!  Hi!  Um… yeah, it’s me.  Just… uh, calling to say hey.”  Hawke closes his eyes, trying to will the memory of that kiss away, as well as his feelings of rejection and dismay.  He swallows, forces his smile back into place, “So I was wondering - are you up to anything tonight?  It’s no big deal if you are,” he hurries onward, “But a bunch of friends and I are going to see this band, the Clinic?  And I was wondering, I mean, Varric said their lead singer is maybe looking to move on.  I’d just… if you were interested, I’d really appreciate your opinion on him?  ‘Cause Varric reckons we should ask him to join Fader, and…”

“Yes,” Fenris says, “Yes.  I’ll be there.  Where are they playing?  What time?”

“Um, at the Sewer?  I’m sorry, it’s kind of gross there, and…”

“I know the Sewer, Hawke,” there is a faint trace of a smile in the sound of Fenris’ voice, but it only serves to make Hawke even more nervous.  “It is where we met, remember?”

“Well, not really,” Hawke babbles, cursing himself, telling himself to shut up even as he does, “We met in an alley with me on the ground and you trying to get me up after a fairly epic brawl.  As I recall it, anyway.”

Fenris chuckles, “You’re right.  Do you know the time that this band plays?”

“No.  I’m sorry.  I could call you once I know?”  

“It does not matter.  If they are halfway decent they won’t be on until sometime after midnight anyway.  I’ll be at the Sewer from then.  I’ll… see you then, unless there is...anything else?”

 

And he almost asks.   _ Why didn’t you call, Fenris? _ It would be so easy - just five words, and perhaps all the self-doubt would go away.  Hawke even opens his mouth to utter them, and then he stops.  “No, nothing else,” he says as the pause becomes uncomfortable. “I’ll see you at the Sewer.”

“Alright,” Fenris says softly, and then, “Hawke?”

“Yeah?” 

Silence on the end of the line, and an exhale.  “Don’t worry about it.  It was… it was just stupid.  I’ll see you tonight.”

“‘Kay.  ‘Bye,”  Hawke says, but the line has already gone dead. He takes the receiver away from his ear and stares into it, listening to the open dial tone for a moment, and then he hangs up.  He sighs, more puzzled and wounded than ever.

 

-|||-

 

“Then… what?”  Isabela frowns and looks at him in confusion.  “Does he want you or not?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe?  I mean, he kissed me like he wanted it.  Me, I mean.  But he didn’t call for like, a week, and… I mean, I just thought…”  Hawke groans, puts his hands in his hair, his elbows on the sticky table, either side of his pint. “When we’re together I can hardly think straight; I’ve been listening to nothing but his music since I found out who he was, and shit but the guy can play.  Like… I dunno, Izzy.  But maybe he’s shy, or he’s been burnt bad or something… I mean, he’s famous, it’s gotta happen.  Trust issues and that?  Fuck knows.”  Hawke sighs, lifts his head and looks around at the three of them - Isabela, confused and exasperated, Merrill, concerned and Varric, royally entertained.  Hawke rolls his eyes.  “Whatever.  I invited him to come tonight, to meet us at the Sewer, so if he shows then I guess he’s interested.  If not, then I guess it wasn’t meant to be.  I’m not exactly the waiting and hoping type.”

 

“Fair enough,” Isabela says, then turns in her seat to glance at the wall clock.  “Ooh, come on.  We better go.”

“What?” Hawke asks, putting his hand on his pint, “It’s only half ten though.  Won’t they play until later?”

“Far as I know they’re on early, because of the curfew… didn’t you read about that?”  Isabela asks, and after a moment of confusion, Hawke nods.  The curfew.  There had been some minor incidents apparently, up at the local Circle, and the Templars had strong armed the Viscount’s Office to put in place a curfew for all magic enabled citizens.  This meant that everyone registered as a mage was now required to be indoors by midnight.  The measure was supposed to be temporary, but in Hawke’s view this was probably something the Templars had been looking to put in place for a while, and it was more likely to become permanant the longer it went on for.  And of course, it fed into Dumas’ reelection campaign, all that political shit - the mundane don’t want magic enabled any place but the Circle, resented the fact that so much of basic industry is now tied to magic, so they took any chance to strike back at them.  

 

Of course, this would all mean a lot more to Hawke if he’d bothered to register as magic enabled.  When they’d first arrived in Kirkwall, Leandra had been in no state to deal with customs and immigration by herself - Carver was in much the same position.  So instead of joining the line for magic enabled emigres, Hawke had stayed with them - had shaken his head when the official, a grumpy dwarf, had asked if he was magic enabled, and nodded when asked if he understood that making a false statement was illegal, could mean a fine or deportation.  He knew it, but did not care in that moment - why should he care now?  As long as he’s careful, he has nothing to worry about.  Being unregistered affords him a greater degree of freedom and less scrutiny than registration does, though he wonders at Merrill’s position.  “Did you sign up?” he asks, and she shakes her head, obviously understanding his rather cryptic question.  “No,” she says cheerfully, “But I am an elf.  And we’ve had a midnight curfew too.”  She laughs and pulls back her hair, “The ears are a little harder to hide!”

 

Hawke winces, though he tries to smile, impressed by her cheerfulness.  “I guess so.  Lets boogie then.  Are you coming?” he asks Varric, who shakes his head and downs his pint in a hurry.  “Not me.  Got a couple of articles to finish, and I gotta see my brother.  Family shit, you know.”  

Hawke snorts and nods, then as they rise from their seats, says, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Yeah, but you’d never guess it,” Varric tells him, then shrugs, “Ah well.  Have fun, kids.  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.  Say hi to Anders for me, would you?”

 

-|||-

  
  


They walk, the three of them, down into the dark. They can hear the music, tinny, distorted, lovely. Hawke’s voice echoes off the stone, travelling around the cramped space, “Let me do the talking, ‘kay? If he’s anything like what Varric said…”

“Varric only said he was with Rebel Warden and Highever Orphan.  He never told us much about what this guy was actually like.  And I mean, I’ve heard some of his older stuff, it’s really good.” Isabela pouts, shakes out her mane of hair and puts her arm around Merrill. “What do you need us for, if we can’t talk to him? If he comes over to Fader, then we have to get along with him too.”

 

“Yeah, but I’m the charming one. I’m the one with the Hawke mojo…”

“The Hawke mojo?” Isabela laughs, and Merrill joins her. “Sounds fake, but okay.  Does Carver have that too?”

“Nah. Carver’s more Amell than anything…”

Merrill sounds confused, “He seemed really nice, I’m sure he has some kind of mojo.  If you’ve got it, surely Carver has it too.  You’re brothers, after all!”

“Just because we’re brothers, doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re related, Merrill-baby,” Hawke laughs. Merrill frowns at him, clearly trying to figure it out, and Isabela sighs. “He’s being a dork again, kitten.”

“Which is exactly why I should be the one to talk to this guy. If he’s any good, that is.”

The Sewer is packed tonight.  As soon as they open the heavy doors and travel along the tight corridor, plastered with gig posters, they are assaulted with the noise - of people singing, of the overamplified guitar, of shouting.  “Looks like a good night!” Hawke yells to Isabela, leaning close to her ear.  She grins up at him, beckoning to him, and he sees her grab hold of Merrill’s hand.  She pushes forward, through the crush of people, and he follows, Merrill between them.  Hawke can’t see the stage yet, there is a huge central pillar in the way, but whoever it is is clearly good; there is a kind of howling shout, and then the lyrics ring out:

_ I want! to find compassion _

_ When I find it, _

_ it vanishes _

_ These thoughts I have they seem _

_ to pass me by… _

_ like a cloud _

 

Isabela stands on tiptoes, puts her hand on the shoulder of the woman in front of her, who turns slightly to see who it is, then faces the front again.  Hawke watches her for a moment as she watches the band that he as yet cannot see, and then she turns to him, grinning.  She grabs his shoulder, pulling him toward her, and then takes his neck, pulling his face toward hers to yell in his ear.  “That’s your man,” she tells him, “And Varric was right.  He’s good. Heard he’d had some legal troubles though…” But Hawke barely listens.  The lyrics hit him full force again,  _ I pray, it’s a cloud, and hope is just another form of prayer… it’s a cloud _ ....

 

Hawke knows he has to get closer.   He squeezes Isabela’s elbow, pointing forward and she nods.  Merrill grins at him, and he smiles back, then pushes his way around the pillar and forward.  Not looking at the band for a time, just concentrating on moving forward, riding the shoves he gets in return, trying to make himself some space.  When he’s standing only three rows back from the front of the stage, almost in the middle, he stops and looks up.  The singer whirls, his full skirt flaring, eyes closed.  He stops with his back turned, holding the microphone toward the crowd, who bay, but he is obviously talking to the bassist, who smiles at him indulgently.  The man turns away, back toward the crowd, smiling, looking as if he is about to laugh, and puts his foot up on one of the short amps in front, taking his skirt in hand, exposing the long boots under it.  He wears no shirt, and his skin glistens palely under the yellow lights.  

 

Suddenly, the singer tilts his head back and howls into the microphone.  And with that sound, Hawke knows that this is the one, this is the guy he has to have. He has stage presence like you wouldn’t believe, and his pipes are a fucking gift, and if he wrote those lyrics… he is far too good for the Clinic, to waste his life playing in some go-nowhere outfit.   _ Nope,  _  Hawke thinks, _ if he says no, then… He can’t say no.  We need him.  I need him. _

The singer grins and pushes himself up onto the amp, standing above the crowd, one arm raised, pale skin slicked with sweat, skirt just cresting the jut of his hipbones.  Hawke inhales, lost, the only one of the crowd not moving, not making any noise, just drinking in the performance.  The singer tosses his long, red-gold hair back and seems to look directly at Hawke as he sings the line  _ I want! to find some laughter. When you laugh, they can’t kill you…  _ And Hawke feels… Maker, he doesn’t know, this tearing kind of shake inside himself at the words and the gaze, fraught, paralyzing. He feels suddenly like he knows him, this complete stranger; he seems familiar to Hawke at a deep, fundamental level.   _ Anders, _ he remembers,  _ his name is Anders _ . But by then, the singers gaze has shifted to someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first - a bit of an apology to long-time followers of this 'verse! If you've been following _Tour Edition_ you'll recognise that last bit - though it's a more full version here. For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, the last part of this chapter actually started life as a short story, which is published in the collection above; it's about all the bits of headcanon that I'd had when I was writing Bright Wastelands, Full of Noise and didn't think I'd ever have a place to put them.
> 
> Secondly, the music reference for this chapter! The song that the Clinic is performing is called _Sadness_ , and it's performed by the band Porno for Pyros, from their 1991 self titled album. For those unfamiliar with PfP, their lead singer is Perry Farrell - who is also the lead singer for Janes' Addiction, the band that Fader is (mostly) modelled off.


	7. Chapter 7

He looks exhausted, even from this distance.  Hawke watches through the crowd, carefully observing how Anders interacts with his bandmates, hoping to see a clue as to his disposition.  The Clinic’s drummer offers Anders water, which he waves aside with a grimace and says something to the man, as he gestures to their guitarist.  The guitarist puts her hand on Anders shoulder, and he smiles at her gently, shakes his head again, and the drummer gives her the water instead.  They look at Anders, who has pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes close - against a headache or some other ailment, it looks like to Hawke.  The two bandmates look at him in concern, and Anders catches them looking at him. He smiles, waving them off, obviously trying to reassure them.  Hawke does not see their expressions, but he notes their obvious reticence to leave Anders on his own.  Anders raises an eyebrow, looks at the two of them, and the guitarist nods, takes the drummers hand, and pulls her away.

 

Anders seems to sigh, and rubs at his cheek absentmindedly, watching them go.  He pulls a small towel from over his shoulder, which he proceeds to rub over his sweaty arms and chest.  He turns, pulling away from the wall, looking toward the backstage area with interest.  Hawke jiggles nervously.  Watching is one thing, but he knows that his current uneasy state of detente between  _ drunk enough to be brave  _ and  _ too drunk to make sense _ won’t last forever.  So, he leans close to Merrill, yells, “I’m gonna go ask him!” into her ear and she nods excitedly. “Good luck!” she screeches back, and hugs him.  He grins at her and plows forward.

 

“Hey,” he says.  Anders either doesn’t hear or ignores him, continuing to wiping the sweat from his arms, still looking intently toward backstage.  “Hey!” Hawke repeats, and reaches out to touch the other man, when Anders turns.  He blinks once, obviously surprised, and Hawke swears in that instant his eyes flash once, brilliant blue, and then Anders clenches his jaw.  “What?  What do you want?”

“Hey, just trying to be friendly,” Hawke says, raising both his hands to shoulder height.  “I… just wanted to say you fucking kicked ass up there.  You’re really good, dude.  Anders, is it?”

 

Anders narrows his eyes suspiciously.  “Who wants to know?  If you’re trying to serve me, you better tell me now.  I’m not taking any more legal shit from Fortress, Rebel Warden can eat my ass.  Made me get rid of my cat, those bastards.”  

“Um.  Okay.”   _ His cat? _ Hawke wonders, then continues, “Um, I’m not trying to serve you papers.  I… I did want to ask you something though.”   _ Shit, this is going badly _ , Hawke thinks, and then almost laughs - it’s exactly the Hawke mojo at work.  He shakes his head at himself and then looks at Anders, who is still clutching the towel in one fist.  “Look, I heard a rumour that you might be on the lookout for a new band.  And… well, we’re looking for a vocalist.  You wanna..?”

“Nope,” Anders tells him abruptly, and continues wiping sweat off himself.  The corner of the Sewer they’re standing in is almost abandoned apart from a few couples, making out in the darkness.  Hawke shifts uncomfortably, but Anders seems oblivious.  “Well,” Hawke says, trying a new tactic, half joking really, “We can either do this the easy way or the hard way…”

 

“Are you threatening me, little man?”  Immediately, Anders throws down the towel in his hand, straightening and stepping toward Hawke - just half a pace, but enough to be absolutely clear in his intent, “Because you have no idea what I’m capable of.  So, how about you take your shitty band and your shittier threats and…”  Suddenly, he stops talking, narrowing his eyes again and seeming to size Hawke up.  “Huh.  Are you the guy from Fader?”

 

“Yes!  Yes, oh Maker, fuck, I should have lead with that.  Shit.  I’m sorry, I just…  Obviously, I’m not as good at this as I claimed I was.”  Hawke’s eyes have gone wide, and he grins stupidly.  “I’m so sorry.  It’s just… I mean, I dunno if you heard, but our drummer - my brother - he’s gone to drum for Last Warden Standing, and I mean, it was me and our bassist,” he turns, pointing to Isabela, who waves lazily at them, smiling, “doing the vocals and…”

“And you kind of suck.  Yeah.”  Anders pauses, then stoops to pick up the towel, slinging it over one shoulder, before he continues, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered you’d ask, but I’m not looking to leave the Clinic.  Sorry.”

 

Hawke sighs and rubs the back of his neck, disappointed.  “Look man, I don’t wanna be that guy, but the Clinic…” he shrugs, takes a deep breath and prepares to be punched, “You’re wasted on them.  I mean, c’mon.  With your chops, you could really be going places.  Big places.  And a bigger band means bigger reach, right?  Fader could do that, you’d really fit our sound, man, and… look.  I’m not asking for much.  Just come over and we’ll jam sometime, okay?  No commitment.  Just say you’ll try us, one time.  Please.  We need you.”

“Going places, huh?  It ever strike you that that’s exactly what I don’t want?”  Anders shakes his head, looks away, and his expression is sad.   

 

Hawke sighs, and his lips tighten - he considers the game lost.  “Ah well, can’t blame a guy for trying.  Thanks anyway - you really do kick ass you know.  It was good to see you play, finally.  Varric’ll be pissed, but at least he’ll owe me money.”  Hawke smirks, “That’ll be good to collect on.”  He waves his hand and begins to turn when Anders says, “Wait.”

 

Hawke turns back around, frowning.  He cocks his head, wondering, and Anders looks at him, “Varric Tethras, right?  The local guy, sometimes writes for Philliam?”

Hawke nods.  Anders continues, “And… you’re not planning on changing the name, right?  You’re planning to stick with Fader?”

Hawke nods again, confused, and Anders smirks, seeming to mull it over.  He narrows his eyes again briefly, then nods.  “Okay.  One time, then we’ll see.”  He considers Hawke for a moment longer, and then his eyes rove over Hawke’s shoulder, into the crowd.  “Karl!” he says delightedly, before moving past Hawke.  Hawke turns to see a shorter man with greying hair and wire rimmed glasses - something in his memory almost audibly clicks and he yelps, “Meat is Murder!”

 

Anders has embraced Karl, but he turns back at Hawke’s words.  “What?” he asks, and Karl laughs.  “Are you talking about that dreadful t-shirt of Anders’?”

“Yeah!  I knew I’d seen you before, but I didn’t register!  Ha, sorry guys.  You just looked… I dunno, really odd together, and I… uh, sorry.  I mean, hey, it’s nice to meet you.  I’m Tal, Taliesin Hawke, and I am an expert at putting my foot in my mouth.”  He grins at Karl, who raises an eyebrow and smiles.  Hawke smiles back, then turns his gaze to Anders again.  “Hey, Anders?  Um… We’re gonna practice at this place called the Bone Pit?  Like, day after tomorrow?  Around three?  If I haven’t, like, insulted you and your… um, friend here, and now you hate my guts or anything?” 

 

Anders blinks at him and slowly shakes his head.  “I’ll be there.  You know,” he smiles, and it’s beautiful to see; sweet and hopeful, and Hawke swallows, bites the inside of his cheek, “You remind me of someone I used to know.  I’ll see you at the Pit… Hawke, is it?”

“Yeah.  Tal,” Hawke tells him, and Anders grins.  

“Okay.” He puts an arm around Karl and draws a deep breath.  “Okay, Tal.  I’ll see you later then.”

 

They walk away together, arms around each other.  Hawke watches them, a slow writhe of emotions in his chest - relief, and something akin to jealousy.  That name, Karl’s name on Anders’ lips, it is the audible manifestation of everything he wants in his secret heart; everything he cannot bring himself to admit to wanting.  He looks at the floor, Fenris’ face swimming in his minds eye, the touch-memory of that kiss, and he breathes a little faster.  Where is Fenris?  It’s still early yet, but…  _ He’s not coming _ , he tries to tell himself, but he cannot kill that hope, not just yet.  He feels cold all of a sudden, and sighs, still staring at the floor.  Suddenly, someone punches him lightly on the arm.  “So?” Isabela asks, and Merrill smiles from behind her, “What’d he say?”

 

“Varric fucked up,” Hawke says to her; he can use his normal voice, because the band playing after the Clinic are still mucking about with their drumkit.  “He, Anders, he reckons he’s not interested in leaving the Clinic…”

“...That little shit,” Isabela mutters, and Hawke smiles at her, raising an eyebrow and pointing upwards.

“Ah, this might be an accurate description of our dwarven friend.  However, never fear, yours truly managed to get said vocalist to agree to come and jam with us.  So he’s coming to practice on Thursday.”  Hawke waggles his eyebrows and grins, “So let’s all put on our prettiest manners, get out the good china and wear our fanciest underwear, shall we, ladies?”

 

Isabela and Merrill both laugh.  “Good work, bozo,” Isabela tells him, and then looks considering.  “Hey, I’ve been thinking, we should start recording our gigs.  We could start putting an album together…”

“Already?” Hawke asks, “We’ve only written three songs.  You don’t mess around, do you?”

“Nope,” Isabela says, “We could release, like, a live demo version, and that’d get us some attention.  I’m all about getting some attention.”  Isabela smiles and Hawke sees Merrill staring at her.  His mouth quirks at the expression on her face; he thinks he sees a spark of something here.  “Hey,” he asks, “Anyone got the time?”

 

Isabela smirks and shrugs, and Merrill shakes her head.  “Well,” Hawke informs them huffily, “You two are no help at all. How on earth am I supposed to know when I should start to panic about my super-hot date not showing up?”

Isabela’s smirk intensifies, and Hawke feels a hand lightly on his waist.  He turns in surprise, and there is Fenris - Fenris smiling shyly at him, Fenris’ hand on him.  “Hello,” he says softly to Hawke, and then steps away a little, looking at Isabela and Merrill.  Hawke grins - it looks foolish, he  _ feels _ foolish, almost giddy with relief - then he recovers himself and says, “Hello yourself.  You missed the Clinic entirely, babe.”  _ Babe! he thinks to himself, Good grief!  What’s gotten into you?  Why are you so determined to scare him off? _ He chuckles to try and cover the nervous sweat that seems to have immediately exuded from his skin, and shrugs.  “Doesn’t matter.  You’re here now.”

 

Fenris’ facial expression is strange, and he says nothing, only moving his gaze between Merrill, Isabela and Hawke.  “Oh! And, uh, this is Izzy and Merrill - the other parts of the band, our band, Fader.  Izzy plays bass, and Merrill’s just joined us as our drummer.”  

“Charmed,” Isabela says, and thrusts her hand toward him.  Fenris pauses, not reaching for it, and Isabela arches an eyebrow.  “Don’t worry.  I don’t bite.  Not on the first date, anyway.”  Fenris puts his own hand out very gingerly and shakes Isabela’s hand, just by the fingers.  She looks at him oddly, then at Hawke, who shrugs imperceptibly.  Merrill titters, putting her hand over her mouth, then grins at Fenris.  “It’s nice to meet you!  I haven’t seen you around the Alienage, are you new in town?  Oh!  Did you know about the curfew?”  She looks very concerned and puts her hand out, looking as if she will touch Fenris’ arm.  He flinches back from her touch, eyes blazing.  “No.  Do not touch me.”

 

Merrill pulls her hand back sharply, looking terrified, and Isabela scowls.  “Andraste’s Tits, what’s up with you?  You don’t need to be rude about it - she’s just trying to help you.”

“I do not need help,” Fenris tells her, and then there is an uncomfortable silence.  Suddenly the crowd amassed behind Hawke begin cheering wildly, and he turns, sees four young men taking the stage.  One of the guys with the dinged up guitar slung over his shoulders, and the bright green hair approaches the microphone and yells into it, “We’re Chantry Fuck, and you all can go to the Void!  Fuck the Viscount, fuck the Templars, fuck the curfew!  One, two, three, four!”

 

There is a single slam of chord from the two guitars on stage, and a rattle of cymbal and… is that cowbell?  Hawke almost laughs, as the two guitarists and bassist fall into a syncopated, hitching rhythm.  The vocalist leans over to his microphone, the only one on the short stage; as he does, his hair catches the yellow stage lights, and they turn the bright green all the more aggressive, even uglier, luminous against his pasty skintone.  It also has the effect of turning his white-on-white ensemble - raggy, torn and restitched, held together with safety pins and patches, he wears what was once a collared business shirt, and bleached white tight pegged pants with white-painted boots - into something better; the garb of a martyr.  The singer smirks and then moans into the mic, _ I’m on a submarine mission for you, bay-beh, I can’t figure out your watery love… got you up on my tee-vee screen, feel your undercurrent flowin’ _ ... The bassist, a tall man with black, spikey hair and hooded eyes, a moronic grin on his face, lurches toward the mic stand and sings the chorus, backing up the lead vocals with,  _ Sub mission!  Goin’ down, down, you’re draggin’ me down… Sub mission!... I can’t tell ya what I’ve found… _

 

There is something beautiful in this degeneration; but maybe beauty is the wrong word.  Here, with Fenris’ beside him, still slightly high off the coup of getting Anders to say yes (even in a limited way), tingly with adrenaline and drunkenness, the stink of the Sewer burning his nostrils, Hawke feels much braver than he’d ever felt before in Fenris’ presence.  Plus, this disjointed, barely held together rhythm, the lyrics -  _ submission, submission, submission _ clangs and resounds through his head - it all sends mental images, barely imagined sensations into his mind.  What might Fenris’ hand feel around his throat, or in Hawke’s hair, tugging roughly as he slams his cock into Hawke’s mouth?  Would Fenris even want that?  Maker, he can’t stand it anymore, he wants to be used, and surely he’s waited long enough.   _ Now or never,  _ he thinks, and before he loses his mind entirely, leans down to the pointed ear to whisper-yell, “I want you.  Bad.  You wanna?”

 

Fenris turns and looks at him, there in the half-light seeping from the stage, his gaze almost as physical as the stink.  His eyes, bright and intelligent, consider Hawke for a moment, and there must be something of the desperation he feels in them, because Fenris nods, just once, and takes Hawke’s hand.  Hawke grins, squeezes his hand, and then turns, guiding Fenris toward the bathrooms.

 

There isn’t too much of a line, which is a relief.  Hawke jiggles, antsy, already swollen under the fly of his jeans just on the thought of what Fenris might do to him.  Fenris, however, looks pensive and bored by turns; this however, doesn’t dampen Hawke’s enthusiasm, just makes him want Fenris the more.  He wants to bend down and blow filthy promises into Fenris’ ear, tell him all the things he wants Fenris to do to him, tell him everything he’d thought or wished about him since they’d met.  He bites the side of his tongue, shifting on his feet again, sure his hand is clammy now from the tension.  Hawke realises he’s just staring at the side of Fenris’ face, watching it without seeing, almost panting in his exaggerated state of arousal.  Finally, after a long minute, Fenris turns, and his expression both sharpens and softens at the same time.  He lifts a hand, caressing around the line of Hawke’s jaw, down to his neck to pull him forward until they are almost eye to eye.  “Are you sure?  Here?” Fenris mutters, and Hawke nods.  

“Yeah,” he murmurs huskily, “Want you.  Maker, Fen, I’d ask you to fuck my mouth right here.”  He closes his eyes and images swim behind them, and he feels Fenris’ grip tighten on his neck.  He pants, keeps talking, “Would you, uh, would you mind?  That’s all I want, I wanna blow you here, want you to pull my hair, do whatever.  Fuck my mouth, Fenris.  I want you inside me, I wanna taste you, I want you to fuck my throat so deep I…” he laughs quietly as a door opens in front of them and Fenris pulls him forward, shoving the man who exits the stall out of the way.

 

Once inside, Hawke finds the door won’t latch.  He tries again with shaking hands then thinks,  _ Fuck it _ , as the lock comes off entirely in his hands.  He throws it past Fenris into the dirty brown water in the bowl of the toilet, where it lands with a loud splash, and Hawke laughs.  It quickly turns into a moan as Fenris pushes him against the wall of the tiny stall, roughly grabs at his cock through his trousers, pushing his other hand up inside the sweaty t-shirt Hawke wears.  He bends his neck, and Fenris is there, Fenris’ mouth is on his and his hands, oh, his hands are on Hawke, on his back, in his hair, rough and wanting.  Fenris breaks the kiss after a few seconds more and mutters, “On your knees.”

 

Hawke grins, exhaling shakily.  He lowers himself to the damp, cracked tiles of the floor.  From somewhere external to himself, he wonders what will happen if someone neglects to check under the closed door before they enter, but then Fenris is undoing the fly of his black jeans, opening it wide, scooping his cock out, holding it by the base and  _ Maker’s Sweet Bride, he’s fucking gorgeous.   _ Even only half hard, Fenris’ cock is long, beautifully shaped; Hawke’s mind goes blank for a moment, and he blinks slowly, completely oblivious to the stupid grin on his face.  

 

Eagerly, Hawke licks his lips, then sucks in just the head of Fenris’ cock quickly, both hands going to Fenris’ arse.  He feels dizzy with it, this wanting, too much to be patient; so much so that he’s sloppy, and catches Fenris’ foreskin on his teeth.  Fenris hisses in a breath, pulls back, and Hawke mutters, “Sorry, sorry, just…”  He swallows, takes a breath, and opens wide, taking the whole of Fenris’ cock into his mouth, feeling the head rub against his soft palate, Fenris’ fingers against his lips.  He gags a little, swallows around Fenris’ cock, but clutches Fenris tighter when he tries to pull away again.  Slowly, he rocks back on his knees, then forward again, the cold wetness of the floor seeping into his jeans, not even feeling the sensation of it, his whole mind on the cock in his mouth, the deep pool of his own lust.  

 

His mouth floods with saliva, and there it is, Fenris’ hand in his hair, one hand still around the base of his cock.  The stall is small; when Fenris moves forward, off the wall, Hawke can feel the presence of the opposite wall very close to him.  He smiles around Fenris’ cock, looks up at the elf through his lashes, arches an eyebrow.  “Are you alright?” Fenris asks him.

“Hnng,” is all Hawke can manage.  He puts one hand possessively around Fenris’ cock, over Fenris’ own hand and nods.   _ I’m not letting you go _ , he thinks, and then Fenris tightens his grip in Hawke’s hair to something very like pain.  Hawke inhales sharply, then grunts, opening his mouth wider, flattening his tongue and kneading Fenris’ arse - tightening and loosening, trying to encourage him to move his hips.  

 

And he does, oh he does, his cock slides deeper into Hawke’s throat, forward and back, fucking his mouth slowly.  Hawke concentrates on the sensation, the wet slide of it, his breathing short in his lungs, trying not to choke, wanting to.  He closes his eyes - Fenris is everywhere, all around him - the taste of him, bitter salt tang, the smooth feel of the fabric underneath his hands, the way the zipper of Fenris’ fly scratches at his stubble.  He hears the goings on from outside, the rattle and flush of the toilet in the stall next to the one which they occupy, the muttering boom of drums and muffled bass of the band outside, the increase in volume as the door opens and shuts.  From the half dark underneath his eyelids, he sees the stutter of the fluorescent lights, and Maker, Maker, Fenris against his tongue, rutting into his mouth, the feel of his own hard-on inside his pants.  He takes one hand off Fenris’ arse, palms himself through his jeans, breathes out harshly through his nose, then tries to put his hand down his pants, to at least do something about this ache, but they are too tight and he promptly gives it up.  Fenris increases in pace a little, his balls against Hawke’s chin, and Hawke hears a stifled moan, and something in a foreign sounding language, some curse by the sound of it.  There is a laugh, and someone says outside the stall, “Oi!  Hurry up in there!”

 

“Fuck off,” Fenris growls, and gasps as Hawke sucks hard on his cock, hollowing his cheeks.  His nose is buried for a moment in the coarse hair under Fenris’ navel, just above Fenris’ thumb, and then the grip on his hair intensifies and he whines, gripping his own cock and Fenris’ arse as he does.  Fenris increases his pace, just on the border of rough now, and Hawke pants through his nose, opening his throat as much as he is able.  It burns, and he wants to gasp; with every shove forward Fenris interrupts his air supply slightly.  His mouth is full of saliva now, he can feel it beginning to trickle from the corners of his mouth, and Maker this is good, this is so good, he’s wanted this, wanted Fenris like this,  _ make me feel bad,  _ he thinks,  _ make me feel dirty _ .  There is a loud hammering on the wall of the stall, and Fenris yells, “I told you… oh,  _ fuck… _ ”

 

He pulls out the vowel sound of the curse, turns it into a moan as he holds Hawke’s head still, slamming his cock into Hawke’s mouth, Hawke can’t breathe, he doesn’t want to, oh  _ shit _ but it’s good, this moment, right here, he clutches his cock through his jeans, knowing he’s not far off coming himself, almost wanting to come inside his pants and just… have it be a secret between them, that he couldn’t last, he wouldn’t, Fenris is gasping, once, twice, he slams again and again into Hawkes mouth and then holds him steady, his cock buried in Hawke’s throat and Maker he can feel it twitch as Fenris comes, he swallows around it, swallows all Fenris gives him, and Fenris gasps and moans again.  There is another final barrage of noise against wall of the stall, someone swears, “Come  _ on _ , you fuckin’ cunts, get outta there!”  And then Hawke is being hauled up, into Fenris’ arms, being kissed, he falls into it, there in the darkness behind his eyelids, he smiles against Fenris’ lips, Fenris who breaks the kiss and murmurs, “Come with me, please.  Come with me.”

 

“Yeah,” is all Hawke can manage.  Fenris pushes off the wall, spends a moment tucking his softening cock back into his jeans, then hauls the door open and pulls Hawke forward by the hand.  There is laughter and some comment from those waiting, but Hawke is deaf to it, his lips buzzing with the friction, the taste of Fenris in his mouth.  The door of the bathroom opens, Hawke just follows Fenris, stumbling after him, holding his hand like something precious, out into the dark and noise.   _No fun, my babe, no fun,_ yells the vocalist into the microphone, his voice harsh and desperate, _No fun to be alone…_ _Walking by myself… No fun to be alone… in love with nobody else…._  The very air is full, full of stink and sound and sweat, awful, beautiful.  And all Hawke knows in it is the feel of Fenris’ hand in his as they mount the stairs, back out into the street and the night outside.

 

-|||-

 

The wind howls down the alleyway, and an old newspaper flaps its way down the street toward them.  Hawke steps over it, keeping pace with Fenris.  They are silent.  The wind is cold after the heat of the Sewer, the smell of the place seeming to intermingle with Fenris’ smell of sweat and soap in Hawke’s nose, clinging to him.  He feels as if he can scarcely breathe.  He doesn’t know quite what to think, what Fenris wants from him, what they could be to each other.  Could it be love?   _ Don’t be stupid _ , he thinks, panicked,  _ you don’t even know him _ .   _ You’ve got a crush, that’s all.  It’ll hurt when it’s over, but its not going to last forever.  Make your peace with it now.  It never does. _  He swallows, tastes Fenris’ come, fainter all the time.  Unconsiously, he clutches at Fenris’ hand, then laughs to hide his nerves.  “I’d never heard Chantry Fuck before.  I like them.”

 

“You would,” Fenris smiles, rather awkward, and Hawke cannot think of anything more to say.  They are making their way toward Hightown, he sees, and his heart races.  “Fenris,” he says, “Are you sure about this?”

Fenris’ expression clears, and he looks at Hawke.  They keep walking for a moment, Hawke holding Fenris’ gaze, and then Hawke drops his eyes to the cracked pavement.  “Sorry,” he says, “Just thought I should check.  I don’t want you to feel like… I don’t know, like you owe me or any…”

“I don’t feel that way.  Stop thinking so much.”  Maker, he sounds so  _ angry _ , but Hawke nods.  

“Not thinking is something of a speciality of mine.  PhD in foolishness, that’s me.  You want a bad decision made, I’m the man for you.  You know, once I…”

“Hawke.  Are you nervous?”

Hawke laughs, “Me? Nervous?  No.  I’ve done this before you know, please don’t concern yourself that I’m some blushing virgin.  I know what’s supposed to go where - I’m sure I evidenced that to you not that long ago?  I know it wasn’t, you know, a perfect environmental experience or anything, but I’m willing to practice.  Yes, practice makes perfect, that’s my motto.  Did you know…”

 

Fenris sighs and stops walking, dropping Hawkes hand as he does.  They are on the street that Fenris’ apartment building is on, Hawke sees, and his stomach pitches.  He grins at Fenris, who looks at him patiently and says, “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing!  Why would you…”

“Hawke.  What is it?”

 

Hawke swallows, licks his lips.  He manages to look Fenris in the eye for a moment, then drops his gaze again, looking at his shoes.  His arousal is fading rapidly, like the taste of Fenris in his mouth, the smell of the Sewer.  He bites the inside of his cheek, hating himself for being so pathetic, then almost against his own will, says quietly, “Why didn’t you call?”  He looks up, tries to smile, but lets it go when he sees the expression on Fenris’ face.  “I’m sorry.  It’s none of my business.  And I mean I don’t really care care that you didn’t call, you didn’t have to, it wasn’t… it  _ isn’t _ any of my business.  I just… shit…”  

 

He stutters to a stop, not daring to look at Fenris.  Why, Maker, why is he so bad at this?   _ Have you ever felt like this before?  You’ve only known him for… Flames, not even a month.  And you don’t even know him so well… shit, this is dumb.  You’re being dumb about it.  Be cool, Tal.  Stay cool, for once in your life.   _ Defiantly, he looks at Fenris, clenching his fists at his side; he’s completely unprepared for the look of nakedity, of rawness he sees on Fenris’ face.  Their eyes lock on the dim street, and there is only the whine and mutter of the wind between the buildings for a moment, before Fenris steps forward.  “Hawke,” he says quietly, and his nostrils flare slightly, his brow creasing for a moment as he says the name.  They are so close now, so close that Hawke feels as if Fenris could feel his heartbeat through his skin, through the air between them.  “Hawke,” Fenris says again, sliding his hand up and around the back of Hawke’s neck to pull his face down so that they are face to face, kissing him gently on the mouth, then putting their foreheads together.  They are quiet, there on the dead street, still as stone as the wind swirls around them, and then Hawke blinks his eyes open and Fenris moves again.

 

He takes his warm hand from Hawke’s neck and stares up at him.  Finally, he takes a deep breath and huffs it out, then scowls.  “You are more to me than a blowjob in the bathroom, okay?”  He glares up at Hawke briefly, then snatches his hand again, crushing it in his grip, chaffing his palm quickly against Hawke’s knuckles.  “I… I don’t know why, or how, but… but I want you for more than that.  And… I don’t… I… I can’t...”

 

Hawke shakes his head quickly.  “You don’t have to.  I… Look, I’m not good at this.  But I know I don’t need whys or hows answered, not tonight.  Tonight, I just need you.  Please?”

The sudden noise of a siren rips through the quiet night, in the distance, down the curve of the hill, racing back down toward Darktown.  It is joined by another, and the discordant noise masks Fenris’ words, but they are clear enough in his face, clear enough to Hawke - his lips make the one word,  _ yes _ , and then they are moving again, up the street, racing up the stairs and inside the apartment building, up, up, to Fenris’ apartment.


	8. Chapter 8

The apartment is luxurious, but has a strangely lonely, desolate feel.  Hawke blinks as he looks around himself; he feels as if this is the first time he’s been here, mostly because he’d been drunk, high and stunned the last time.  And technically, he supposes, nothing much has changed - but at least this time he hasn’t been beaten up.  There are dark, expensive-looking soft furnishings, a plush Nevarran rug in grey and black, a huge canvas on the pale wall which is just… just blue is all it is, Hawke looks at it, frowning, wondering if it’s a joke.  “Did you do that?” he asks Fenris, and Fenris snorts and shakes his head.  

 

He looks at Hawke for a moment, slightly sly in the subtle lighting, his lips curling as if he is trying to suppress a smile.  Without another word, he turns, walking to the other side of the large, open plan space.  Just before he gets to a curving staircase, he looks back, over his shoulder toward Hawke, and opens his mouth slightly.  Pink tongue, wet lip, sharp teeth.  Hawke smirks and his brain seems to short out, overcome once more by lust.  “Are you coming?” Fenris asks.

“I certainly hope so,” Hawke says glibly, hurrying over to him.  Fenris snorts again and turns, his hand on the bannister and begins to climb.

 

They mount the stairs, Fenris walking just ahead of Hawke.  And it’s just as well that Hawke has one hand on the railing, because as Fenris pulls his plain black t-shirt up over his head, letting it drop on the stairs, Hawke trips over his own feet. “Shit,” he says quietly, and glances up in time to see Fenris smirk over his shoulder at him.  He grins back, but cannot help noticing the tense set of Fenris’ shoulders, even as he admires the pale traceries of... is it scarification?  Tattoos?  Difficult to say, but Maker, Hawke’s fingers itch to touch them, to draw his own pale fingertips over the lines that arc and roll over Fenris’ shoulders and back, to follow them over his body with his tongue.  

 

He wrenches off his own shirt, flings it onto the stairs as well, adrenaline coursing through his veins now, making his stomach curl and tighten, making saliva well in his mouth once more.  Fenris keeps climbing, slowly, deliberately, the shift of the muscles in his back causing Hawke’s cock to throb.  When he reaches the top of the stairs, Fenris turns to the left slightly to stop as Hawke steps onto the landing behind him.  

 

For a moment, Fenris just stands there, still, his back to Hawke.  Hawke smiles, reaching out a hand to touch him, when suddenly Fenris turns.  His eyes are shaded; dark green now, almost black in the dim light of the landing.  And he is so beautiful to Hawke, here in this moment, that he forgets to even look at his surroundings, this nondescript luxury.  Still, underneath the raw want which threatens to take his mind over, there is a deeper, stranger, more physical sensation as well - that is, one of the Fade.  There is something about this place which has sent the awareness of his own magic running through Hawke like wildfire: deep, pure, dangerous.  Electricity tingles under his fingernails, begging to be set free, and he shakes his hands involuntarily, trying to rid himself of the sensation.  Fenris looks at him strangely and Hawke laughs nervously.  “Nothing to worry about,” he assures Fenris, “Just a bit of…”

 

“Ambient current.  I know,” Fenris tells him, and then claps a hand over his mouth, looking suddenly as if he will vomit.  

“Fen?  Whoa, are you…”  Hawke steps forward, hardly aware as he raises his hands, wanting only to help.  Fenris takes a breath, exhales noisily through his fingers, then lowers his hand.  “I… I am fine.  I just…” and he bites his lips together.  Hawke stares at him, appalled at the reaction, concerned, then steps backward again, suddenly awkward.  “Hey, look, I can go… I mean, if you’ve...”

 

“No,” Fenris says, and shakes his head quickly.  “No, I want you here, Hawke, I do, it’s just…”  He is silent, rubs his hand across his chin, then down his throat, finally folding his arms over his chest, each hand cupping an elbow.  “Well,” Hawke says cautiously, “We’ll take it slow.  Believe me, I’m in no rush.”  _ Liar, _ he tells himself, then pushes the internal voice away.  He smiles at Fenris and tells him, “I’ve got nowhere to be, and no one to see.”  Fenris nods, then after a moment's more silence, tells him fiercely, “Perhaps I was not making myself clear.  I do not want to take it slow.  I want what I want, and that is you.  But you are not to use magic at all.  Is that clear?”  Hawke nods and Fenris huffs out a breath, then asks, “Now, are you coming, or not?”

 

He looks at Hawke as if he is defying him to speak.  Without dropping his gaze, Fenris reaches out with one hand toward Hawke, who swallows.  He takes a short breath, nods, and puts his hand into the warm grip.  Fenris narrows his eyes, his face a peculiar mix of emotions - shame, chagrin, defiance, lust - and then pulls him toward a closed door.

 

-|||-

 

They don’t speak.  As soon as they’ve entered the room, Fenris steps toward Hawke, taking his face between both his hands, crushing their lips together.  Hawke moans, the sound stifled, and as he does, Fenris pushes him backwards, walking forward, pushing him further into the room.  Hawke resists for a moment, then rides it, allowing himself to be moved, shunted wherever Fenris is taking him - it feels good, this, feels right.  His hands go to Fenris’ waist, feels hipbones and muscles moving beneath skin, then slides his hands around to the front of Fenris’ pants, fumbling at button and fly as the backs of his calves hit the bed.  And Fenris just keeps pushing, so Hawke falls, backward, onto the silky coverlet.  He lands with a huff, looking up at Fenris, who only stares for a moment, then crawls up on the bed to straddle Hawke’s hips. 

 

As Fenris takes his hands and pushes them up over his head, holding his wrists in a vice like grip, Hawke arches his back and grinds into Fenris.  He aches for it, wants Fenris so badly now his mind is aflame with it, so much so that when Fenris moves to plant sharp nips and hard kisses along his shoulder, Hawke murmurs, “Do what you want to me, Fen.  I’m yours.”

Fenris pauses for a moment, and then his tongue slides up Hawke’s neck before he breathes into his ear, “Tell me what you want.”

 

“Aw, fuck,” Hawke groans, thrusting upward again, beginning to be desperate now.  “I wanna take my clothes off, Fen, shit, I wanna like… I dunno.  I know I want you, I want you to fuck me like you did at the Sewer, just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.  Please, Fen, please, I need you, I need you.”  He stops to draw breath, and Fenris releases his wrists to sit up, still astride Hawke.  He looks down on him, quizzical in the quarter-light and nods slowly.  “Then, Hawke, if you are mine, then I am yours.”

 

Abruptly, he gets up, sliding gracefully off Hawke.  He stands at the side of the bed, pondering for a moment, then tucks his thumbs into the waist of his jeans and pushes them down.  And Andraste’s Ashes, he’s  _ perfect _ ; lithe, lean musculature, all that smooth brown skin broken by the white of his markings.  There is a line of sparse, dark hair under his navel.  He turns toward Hawke, and a tiny smile touches his lips when he sees the look on Hawke’s face.  For his part, Hawke is so overwrought that he is actually shivering.   _ Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, _ are all the words he knows, and they spin and flare in his mind like fireworks.  Fenris quirks an eyebrow and says, “Well?  You said you wanted to get naked.”

 

“You’ll find I say a lot of things,” Hawke says, his voice cracking, nerves and heat freeing his tongue, making him stupid.  He fumbles at his own pants, shoving them off roughly, raising his ass off the bed to kick himself free, taking both jeans and underwear off in one clumsy motion.  Fenris chuckles a little, and smiles gently, murmuring, “Someone’s keen.”

 

“‘S been a while, alright?  I’m not promising anything, you can see I’m in a bit of a state already,” Hawke tells him, rather defensively, and then laughs.  “Maker, come on.  I just wanna touch you, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful…”

Fenris frowns and he says, very quietly, “Don’t call me that.”

 

_ Shit, I’ve done it now _ , Hawke thinks, and pushes himself up onto his elbows.  “Yeah, ‘course.”  For a split second, he wonders why, but then the part of his brain still capable of such nuanced thought is rapidly shut down by the return of the sly smile to Fenris’ face.  He licks his bottom lip, and nods, still smiling.  Then Fenris pulls out the waistband of his underwear and shoves it down.

 

Naked, he climbs back onto the bed, pushing Hawke backwards roughly.  His cock is almost hard again, and Hawke feels it brush against his thigh.  He swallows, but as he slides his hand around Fenris’ hip to touch it, Fenris shakes his head.  “No,” he murmurs, and Hawke nods, though he is disappointed.  But Fenris’ skin, his strength, it  feels so wonderful to Hawke, the warmth of his body so alive.  He pushes his nose along the crest of Fenris’ shoulder, breathing in the scent of his skin, and Fenris chuckles.  “Like a dog,” he says quietly, and Hawke laughs.  Slowly, Fenris touches the tattoos on his chest - running his finger along the edges of the griffon’s wings and the arch of the dragon’s neck, placing a palm over the little rough tattoo of Rainbow Brite and chuckling again.  He trails a hand up, up Hawke’s chest, onto his throat.   _ Yes, Maker _ , Hawke thinks, but then Fenris’ hand is sliding away again, up under his jaw, into his hair.  He gives an experimental tug, quite hard, and Hawke grins at him.  “Harder,” he mutters, and Fenris raises an eyebrow, gives a snort, and moves his hand away.  Hawke grits his teeth, hissing in frustration, the backs of his thighs quivering with the tension now.  His hands go up to Fenris’ back, his cock is hard and it’s kind of hurting now, but he wouldn’t change this; he doesn’t want a quick fuck, he wants Fenris to want him with the same bright, brittle flame as he feels.  But under all that, is the desire for Fenris to be the one, the end of the lonely days, someone to cleave to in all of this mess.   _ Stupid dream _ , he tells himself, and wants it anyway. 

 

But when Fenris wraps a hot, clammy hand cautiously around his cock, he is now so desperate he cries out, squeezing his eyes closed, gripping his fingers into Fenris’ flesh, hard.  His hips arch, up and back, reflexive, his body cresting the last ridge of his self control and over - now he is working on instinct alone.  He pants, open mouthed, and Fenris takes one of his wrists again and puts it over Hawke’s head, holding his arm there.  He is so strong, Maker, impossible to guess that, but oh it feels good, this grip, this heat, the way Fenris is just controlling him, doing what he wants.  That’s all Hawke wants, not to have to think, just to be a plaything of this incredible man, this fascinating, gorgeous, talented elf.  “Fen, Maker,” he whines as he fucks into Fenris’ fist, “put, uh, put your fingers in my mouth, something in my mouth, I wan’ it, wanna…”

“All in good time,” Fenris growls, and shifts a little, his hand working Hawke in a faster rhythm.  Hawke moans again, and then opens his eyes briefly before screwing them shut again as his body inches closer to that moment.  And no, it is too much, the extended foreplay, the tension, the whole night, he’s there, it's here, Fenris is just going to jerk him off and it’s really, shit, it’s really too much.

“Fucking shit,” Hawke whines, “Close, close, don’, fuck, I’m gonna…”

“I know,” Fenris tells him, and even in the darkness under his eyelids, Hawke can hear his smile, “I want to watch you come for me.”

 

“Uh, uh,” Hawke pants and then his mouth opens in a silent _oh!_ , his stomach clenching, the arm above his head pushing hard against Fenris’ grip as he comes into Fenris’ fist.  He’s not even aware of the sounds he makes, the short cry he gives.  It feels glorious, this release, this white gold nothing of a moment, but all too soon he’s coming back to the world, hitching in a breath, slowly opening his eyes.  “Fen,” he croaks, “You’re amazing.”

 

Fenris smiles, his hand still working on Hawke’s cock, stroking him gently to coax the last tremors of pleasure from him.  “So are you,” he purrs, and then he relinquishes his grip, allowing Hawke’s softening length to gently rest upon his stomach.  He slides the side of his hand along the come that sketches Hawke’s skin, pushing his fingers through it, slipping them through the fluid, smiling still.  Hawke watches, eyelids heavy, as Fenris looks at his hand, rubbing his thumb along his index finger with a wondering expression on his face.   “Fen,” he says quietly, and when Fenris looks up, Hawke reaches out and takes Fenris’ hand, still coated in his own come and raises it to his lips.  As Fenris watches, his expression slightly awed, Hawke licks his own spend from Fenris’ fingers, taking each finger carefully into his mouth, suckling each of them gently until all trace of himself is gone.  He smiles around Fenris’ middle finger, and holds it between his teeth, flicking the tip of it, under the nail with his tongue.  Fenris smirks, and gently, pulls his hand free.  

 

Hawke sighs, and Fenris moves away, to sit on the side of the bed.  He doesn’t look around, and Hawke puts his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling, the slow roil of awkwardness already beginning, as the afterglow fades.  “So,” Fenris begins, and then is silent once more.  Hawke smiles, wonders if it would be politic to ask where the bathroom is when Fenris says abruptly, “Are you going to stay?”

 

“Uh…” Hawke begins, and blinks.  Well.  That was… unexpected.  He realises that his response could be misconstrued as a lack of enthusiasm, so he smiles and tells Fenris, “That would be… I mean, if you want.  I’d love to.  Is that alright?  I don’t want to… y’know, mess up your routine or anything.  I bet you’ve got…”

“What were your words?  I’ve got nowhere to be and no-one to see?”  Fenris glances around his shoulder, and then looks back down at the ground.  Hawke laughs a little, under his breath, and then struggles to sit up.  He rubs his eyes, then chances a brief look at the side of Fenris’ face.  “Yeah,” he says cautiously, “But I don’t wanna take up your space.  This is your house, you’ve got your own thing going on…”

 

Fenris shakes his head.  “It’s not my house.  It’s… it’s his.  His house - his stupid artwork, his bed.  None of it’s mine.  It’s all his.  Danarius.”

Hawke frowns, looking intently at Fenris now, oblivious to the stiffening come on his stomach or the cooling sweat on his chest.  The set of Fenris’ shoulders is tense, hunched, and he stares into space at the wall opposite.  Hawke wants to put an arm around him, wonders if he wants to be asked questions or touched, but in the end goes with his instinct and remains where he is.  Eventually, Fenris continues, “I came here, to Kirkwall, in part because I had nowhere else to go.  But that is not the whole of it.  I also came here because I knew  _ he _ would know exactly where to find me.  And when he comes looking, I’m going to kill that bastard.”  Fenris sneers, and then releases a shaky sigh.  “I am sorry.  This isn’t the time for that.  I…”

 

“Don’t apologise.  Everyone knows the rumours about, y’know, your… um… relationship?  He seems like kind of...”

Fenris snorts, “He owned me, Hawke.  He took everything I had.  Everything.”

“When you say he owned you…” Hawke begins, speaking slowly, “You mean your music, right?  Because I know he owns all the copyri…”

“No.  I don’t mean that.  I mean that he actually  _ owned me _ .  Fenhedis, do you know nothing of the world around you?  Tevinter is still a  _ slaver _ nation.  And I was a slave; I was an investment, much the same as that piece of art you remarked on when we came in.  I was talented, I am talented - but he exploited that talent.  He kept me moving, always on tour, isolated, never allowed to speak to the press; my talent, my body, everything about me, was something to be  _ managed _ , something he could show off in order to increase his own power.  And he was  _ lauded _ by his contemporaries in the industry, both in Tevinter and here in the South for his  _ business acumen _ , when all it was was straight up… nothing but…”

“Theft,”  Hawke finishes, and Fenris nods.  He is silent for a moment, and then rubs a hand over his eyes.  “I’m so sorry.  This was not the conversation I wished to have with you, and certainly not… not now.  I… just never told anyone this before.  I never had anyone  _ to  _ tell.  I’m not looking for pity,” he says harshly, looking at Hawke, who shakes his head.  “I don’t want it.  I just…” he sighs again, and it is such a lonely sound.  “And now, in only a month, I still have to…”  But he breaks off, shaking his head and looking at his hands.  Quiet again in the room, and then Fenris rises.  “Come.  You’ll want to wash up.”

 

Hawke nods again, and stands, feeling dazed, guilty, wanting a cigarette badly.  His high has left him, and he looks around himself, suddenly very aware of the plush carpet, the richness of his surroundings.  All bought with Fenris’ talent, and at his cost.   _ What a complete bastard _ , Hawke thinks, and then a tiny tingle courses up his spine, bringing with it a mounting apprehension.  He asks, “Fen?  Was… Is Danarius a mage?”

Fenris turns, looking at him steadily for a moment, then he nods.  “Yes.  He is a magister - that is why he was able to rise so fast within the music industry.  Essentially he has no limitations; ready money, close political ties, plenty of contacts.  But yes.  He is a mage.”  Fenris looks at Hawke, as if he is expecting him to ask something else, and then he turns abruptly and shoves open a discreet door.  “In here,” he tells Hawke, who nods, wriggles off the bed and follows. 

 

By the time Fenris is finished washing up - he had insisted Hawke showered first, and by then Hawke was far too disconcerted by Fenris’ story to refuse - Hawke is exhausted.  Fenris pads out of the ensuite, his hair damp, and flips back the covers, getting in beside Hawke, who grins awkwardly.  “This is exciting,” Hawke says, and because he is too tired to stop his mouth simply saying the first daft thing that crosses his brain, he continues, “It’s like a sleep over!  Can I braid your hair while we talk about boys we want to kiss?”

“What?” Fenris asks him, frowning in confusion. “You must be tired.  Either that or I jerked all the sense out of you.  What little there was in there to start with.”

 

Hawke laughs, and some of the tension is smoothed.  He purses his lips, then asks tentatively, “Can I put my arm around you?”

Fenris looks at him sidelong, then nods, scooting a little closer.  In the dim light from the ensuite, Hawke watches as Fenris’ expression goes from cautious to needy and back again.  He swallows, and puts his arm around Fenris’ shoulders, wiggling closer, down under the blankets.  “A sleep over,” he says, “Is a thing that kids, usually girls, I guess, do.  Our sister, Bethy, had a little coven that she’d invite over periodically to titter about boys and have pillow fights with all night, moon over famous people, all that shit.  One time they put makeup on Carver.  It was hilarious, poor bastard.”  He yawns, squeezes Fenris’ shoulders. Fenris tenses a little, then puts his hand on Hawke’s hip, and Hawke smiles.  He knows his arm is going to be dead in the morning, but cannot bring himself to care.  He sighs, blinks once, and drifts into an uneasy sleep.

 

-|||-

 

Before his eyes even open, Hawke knows what sound that is.  Classical guitar.  He smiles - the sound of it brings back pleasant memories of his father, the smell of cigarettes and coffee clinging to him as he sat on the back porch in the warm sunshine, singing softly to himself.  Sometimes, Hawke would sit, out of his father's line of sight, so that he might listen; it was like being privy to someone’s innermost thoughts, beautiful, tender, his father's fingers moving over the strings in impressionistic soundscapes, capable of wringing strange emotions and images from his son’s imagination.  Hawke sighs happily, rubbing his hand over his eyes, and the music stops.  “Don’t,” Hawke says, “I was enjoying that.”

 

“That is why I stopped,” Fenris tells him, and Hawke hears the smile in his voice.  In the quiet room, it is possible for him to make out the faint noise of Fenris’ fingers as they slide over the steel strings, and then the music resumes, though it is more self-conscious this time.  Slowly, Hawke rolls onto his back and pushes himself up, trying to flatten his hair with his hands.  Fenris looks up at him for a moment, smirks, and then looks back down at the strings.  “Good morning,” he murmurs.

 

“Andraste’s Bikini Wax, it’s not still morning is it?”  Hawke groans and flops back down on the bed.  He could really use a cigarette, but that would mean leaving Fenris, and he’s not quite ready for that yet. “I’m done in!  Morning!  What kind of time is this to be waking a person up?  Good grief!”

Fenris laughs quietly, and stops playing.  Hawke groans and rolls over onto his stomach, putting both hands over the back of his head.  “Why, Maker, why must you forsake me so?  Making me fall in love with this… um…”

 

_ Shit _ , he thinks, and his hands tighten in his hair.   _ Big mouth, big mouth, big mouth!  Just don’t say anything, maybe it’ll…  _

“Tal?”  Fenris voice is quiet, and Hawke feels him shift his position on the bed.  There is a brief jangle of strings as Fenris sets the guitar against the side of the bed, and then he asks, “What did you say?”

“Nothing!” Hawke sings from under his own arm, sounding delirious even to himself, “Nothing at all, just bemoaning you getting me up at the sparrow’s fart like you wanted me to be a productive member of society or something!”

“No, not that,” Fenris tells him, and then he is there, crawling up Hawke’s prone body until his hands are either side of Hawke’s shoulders, and he leans down to mutter into Hawke’s ear, “Just after you were asking the Maker why He had forsaken you.”

 

“Oh, that part,” Hawke says weakly, “Er… I don’t remember?”

Fenris snorts and rolls off him.  He sits for a moment, knees drawn up to his chest, and Hawke chances a glance at his face from his refuge.  Fenris’ expression is pensive, then he looks at Hawke from the side of his eye.  “Your memory is extremely poor, then.”  He looks away and shifts slightly, then sighs.  The silence grows.  Hawke clears his throat, and says tentatively, “Fen?  I…”

“Did you manage to speak with the vocalist you wanted?  The one from the Clinic?” Fenris asks, riding over the top of Hawke’s voice.  Hawke looks up at him again, ashamed of himself for not having the courage to tell Fenris, of being too scared of breaking what they might have had by being honest.  Then he forces himself to smile and says, “Yeah.  We’re auditioning him on Thursday, tomorrow, actually.  Well…” he continues, somewhat chagrinned, “He’s kind of auditioning us.  He reckons he doesn’t want to leave the Clinic.”

 

Fenris scratches his chin.  “That is very clever.  Hedging his bets in that way.  For all he knows, he might not even like you, let alone your music.  It is hard to tour with people you do not like.”

Hawke snorts derisively, and grins.  “Yeah, alright, Mr Platinum Records.  Been a long time you were trapped on a cross-country van trip, hasn’t it?”

Fenris looks down at his knees, and takes a deep breath.  “Actually, I never had to do that.  I never toured with a band that I was in - I  _ am _ Lycanthrope. But…” he hesitates, frowning slightly, then mutters quietly, “But I do know about touring with people you do not like.”

 

“Shit,” Hawke hisses, “Fen, I’m so sorry, I just…”

Fenris nods.  “No,” Hawke says, and pushes up on his hands and knees, then slides over, closer to Fenris.  “No, I really am. It was a shitty thing to say, shit, I am a shit…”

“Please, stop it.”  Fenris’ voice is harsh, and he does not look at Hawke.  “You are not a shit.  I know you can be thoughtless, but it does not mean you are heartless.  You act too quickly, and you speak out of turn, but that does not mean that you are willfully malicious.  I know that.”

Hawke nods, feeling miserable.  “I’m sorry,” he mutters again, knowing that it is worthless.  He takes a deep breath and tries to smile.  “So, you wanna come on Thursday?  Meet the new guy?  We’re gonna wow him, I just know it.”

 

Fenris smiles slightly, and looks at Hawke then.  “You may indeed wow him, Tal.  But perhaps play up to his strengths, if this is as much an audition for you as it is for him.  Allow him to shine.  Vocalists like that.  They do not want a lead guitarist who craves the spotlight as much as they do.  He may tolerate sharing, but he will not give it up lightly.”

Hawke nods slowly.  “Sure.  That’s… pretty clever actually.”

“One of us has to be,” Fenris tells him, and smiles.  Hawke thinks it looks sad, but cannot fathom why.  Fenris shakes his head, takes a deep breath and says, “I cannot come on Thursday.  I have… something to do.”

 

“Okay,” Hawke says, and frowns a little when Fenris doesn’t elaborate.  “Well, I guess I’d better get going.  Mum’ll be doing her nut by now.”

Fenris nods, and rises.  He looks at Hawke for a moment, as Hawke flops back down on the bed and yawns hugely, then Fenris chuckles.  “Taliesin.  You are incorrigible.”

“You can’t prove anything,” Hawke tells him, then holds his hands out to Fenris.  “Come on.  Maybe you can keep me awake a bit longer.”  He smirks, “Five more minutes, huh?”

“I should hope a little longer than that,” Fenris tells him, and climbs back onto the bed.

 

-|||-

  
  


Anders stands facing Merrill, Isabela and Hawke on either side of him.  He tosses his hair away from his face and clears his throat.  “Ready?”

 

Merrill nods, brushes poised.  Isabela looks like the cat that got the cream, at least to Hawke, but he supposes that it might be front.  She looks at him momentarily and then nods to Anders, who looks at Hawke.  “Yeah,” Hawke says, his stomach churning, and grins at Anders.  “Lets do it.”

Anders nods back, takes a deep breath and raises the microphone to his lips.  They all wait, eyes on Anders, and finally, he sings a cappella,  _ Day… after day… I will walk… and I will play.  But the day… after today… I will stop… and I will start. _

 

A beat, then the rest of them come in.  Shit, Hawke thinks, concentrating hard, that was almost perfect.  If anything he is a little behind Merrill, so he paces up and gets back in time, just as Anders sings  _ Why can’t I get… just one kiss?  Why can’t I get… just one kiss? Believe me some things that I wouldn’t miss… but I look at your pants, and…  _ He inhales breathily into the microphone, half closing his eyes, then opens them for the line:  _ I need a kiss. _

 

It’s an old Voidheads song from the Blight years.  Hawke had been in love with the Voidheads, had had all their albums, so when Anders had suggested this song, he just knew his eyes had lit up.  He hasn’t played it in years though, knows he’s a little slippy on some of the more complicated fretwork, but feels… yeah, there it is, that tricky shift, he got that one.  He grins, his fingers beginning to find their way more easily to the right notes.  He chances a look at Merrill, who is absolutely beaming.  This isn’t a drummer's song - it’s probably kind of boring for her, since she has to use brushes so as not to overpower the acoustic guitars, but she seems to be enjoying herself.  She catches him looking and grins, nodding furiously.   _ Oh good, _ Hawke thinks as he smiles back,  _ she likes him _ .  

 

He looks back at Anders, who is leaning forward slightly, bouncing a little, one leg in front of the other, almost as if he is about to take off.   _...Something won’t let me make love to you… _ he sings, and glances at Hawke, who panics.   _ Fuckity fuck, _ he thinks, and then something clicks in his mind and he is back in his old bedroom, fumbling through this scale a thousand times, shifting the needle on his battered little record player again and again, listening and relistening to this riff before Carver had gotten so mad at him he’d ripped it off the turntable and hurled it out the window.  It had been a stand up fight that one, one that left Carver with a bloody lip and Hawke doubled over, gasping for air, but their father had laughed and laughed when he’d wrung the story out of them.  In the end, to make peace, Hawke had done all Carver’s chores for a week, and his father had shown him how to make the arpeggio work.  And he does it now, he pulls from that wellspring memory, and his fingers seem to put themselves into the right places on the strings, each note ringing clear and separate from each other in the succession.  Hawke looks up in time to see Isabela and Anders both smile at him, and he smiles back, relieved.   _ Don’t get too comfortable,  _ he tells himself warningly, and looks back down at his right hand.

 

They allow themselves to get swept up in the song, each in their own way.  Isabela laughs out loud, the sound of it carrying over the music.  She seems delighted, and Hawke smiles at her.  Anders seems to be watching her closely, his voice rasping a little as the song becomes more emotive, and then he grins over at Hawke and does a little hip wiggle, making Hawke snort.  Anders puts his head back and sings,  _...the day… is in my sight… when I take a bow… and say goodnight. _

 

Immediately after that, the song shifts, goes quiet and threatening.  Anders pitches forward again, bending right over to almost whisper the bridge:

_ oh ma-mama moma moma mo-ma-mum,  _

_ have you kept your eye, your eye on your son? _

_ I know you’ve had problems, you’re not the only one, _

_ when your sugar left, he left you on the run… _

 

He’s… really, really fuckin’ good at this.   _ He won’t wanna do it _ , Hawke thinks, despondent as Anders rights himself, now singing  _ you know you got my sympathy _ , as he moves his hand in a flicking gesture, looking just past Merrill as if he is having a conversation with an imaginary audience.  His eyes are far away as he sings, and Hawke knows that the audience interaction is exactly what he is imagining.  He smiles, then shakes his head, determined to make the most of it, this opportunity.   _ Doesn’t matter, _ he thinks, going into his solo almost automatically, the bright overtone of the old amplifier lending an even more piercing quality to his tone.  Briefly, he looks up from his fingers, and sees  Anders looking at him.  Anders smirks, tilting his head and nodding.  Hawke frowns, and Anders raises his eyebrows, cocks his head again sharply.   _ He wants me closer _ , Hawke realises, and he shuffles a bit toward Anders.  Anders grins around the words,  _ Broken down kitchen at the top of the stairs,  _ and gestures Hawke closer with his head again.  

 

_ Alright, _ Hawke thinks, and shuffles a bit closer.  Anders snorts a laugh over the line,  _ Words all fail the magic prize _ , and he walks toward Hawke purposely as he sings,  _ Nothin’ I can say when I’m in your thighs. _

_ Fucking...what? _ Hawke thinks, and then grins right back. Holy shit, Anders…  _ He has a boyfriend.  You have a boyfriend!  What are you doing?  _ Hawke thinks, even as he bites his bottom lip, even as he smirks and his breath quickens in his lungs.  Anders reaches out, touches his shoulder and raises an eyebrow to sing:

_ Oh my moma-mama oh my mother _

_ I would love to love you, lover _

_ the city is restless _

_ ready to pounce _

_ here in your bedroom, ounce for ounce _

 

Hawke hears Isabela’s laughter, and he knows he looks stupid, he knows his mouth is hanging open.  But his playing isn’t sloppy, and he feels - more focussed, more driven, than he’s ever felt before.   _ Oh Maker,  _ he thinks, as Anders sings about decisions to make, and things to lose or take,  _ please make him want me.  Us.  Please make him want to be here with us. _

Anders turns abruptly, and points to Isabela, singing,  _ Izzy’s ‘bout ready to cut it up... she said, ‘Wait a minute, honey, gonna… add it up!’ _

 

And that’s it, that’s Hawke’s cue.  He leans forward, into Anders microphone and sings,  _ Add it up!  Add it up! _ just repeating the same phrase.  And shit, they are only inches from each other, their faces, mouths and lips over the top of the same microphone, Hawke stares into Anders’ amber eyes and Anders stares right back, part challenge, part sarcastic laughter, part something else entirely.  Hawke’s mind is blank but for the faint sheen of sweat at Anders’ hairline, the gold of his stubble, the pierced nostril with no ring in it.  He wants to lean forward even further, drop his guitar and take hold of Anders shirt and kiss him.  The vocals finish, and Hawke plays the outro without even thinking about it, the muscles in his forearm hitching with the constant strumming in this part. Anders steps back from him, still smiling, though it’s more cryptic, and the song finishes.  For a moment, all they do is stare at each other, and then Merrill stands up and hollers, “That was fucking brilliant! You guys were so, I can’t even think of the word, you’ve got to say yes, please Anders, please say yes, that was so great!  It was so great!”

 

Anders chuckles, and shakes his head.   _ He’s gonna say no _ , Hawke says, and he looks down at the bare concrete floor of the Bone Pit.  He hears Anders sigh, and a slight whine of feedback as he puts the microphone on top of the amplifier.  Hawke looks up, sees Anders smile at Isabela, and at Merrill, then he’s looking at Hawke again, and that strange challenge is back on his face.  Anders clears his throat, rubs his chest, and nods.  “Yeah.  Alright then.  Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The music notes for the last chapter... because I am a slacker and forgot to do this last time...  
> The two songs mentioned are both performed by the Sex Pistols. They are [Submission](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UZ0bPaOdbQ) (from _Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols_ , 1977) and [No Fun](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6RPvfJXh-n0) ( _Pretty Vacant/No Fun EP_ , 1977: this is a cover of a song originally by Iggy and the Stooges - I like both versions, personally). The Pistols appear as Chantry Fuck in this fic, because seeing their evocative name written on the school bag of a girl I had a crush on in high school got me into punk in the first place, and I am nothing if not a sucker for a little jaunt down memory lane.
> 
> Notes for this chapter...  
> The painting in Danarius' apartment? It's a real thing! It's a series of experimental paintings by an artist named Yves Klein. The one I'm thinking of from this series is called _Monochrome bleu sans titre_ , also known as IKB81, and it was painted in 1957. If you want to see a picture of it, [follow the link](http://www.yveskleinarchives.org/works/works3_us.html).
> 
> The song, attributed to the Voidheads, which Anders and Fader audition each other off is actually a song by the Violent Femmes, [Add It Up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7y9yChV478), from the 1983 self titled album. I challenge anyone to listen to that song and not think of Anders.
> 
> And finally, a huge thank you to dichotomous_dragon, who is the sweetest fucking sweetheart in existence - I was struggling my ass off editing this chapter, and Deeds just swanned in and gave me all these charming and amazing comments at exactly the right moment to lift my spirits. Love you, kadan.


	9. Chapter 9

The weeks roll by.  Twice, sometimes even three times a week they rehearse, and every time, their sound is tighter, better, more  _ them _ .  They write prolifically, every session, and Hawke’s thinking proves correct - Anders has an instinct for the cadence and rhythm, the poetry which makes good lyrics.  They are alone, he and Hawke, sitting next to the fence in the little park opposite the Hanged Man, where they had retired after practice had finished. Isabela had left for work, and Merrill had gone home to babysit for her neighbour.  The mid afternoon sun has warmed the ground, and the light makes dark diamonds against the patchy grass as it shines through the chain link fence. Roughly in the middle of the space sits a battered swing set with one broken swing, and a sad roundabout which creaks and leans ominously to the left if any child is brave enough to attempt to play on it.  Hawke looks over at Anders, then turns away to take a drag on his cigarette.  He exhales noisily, then asks, “Hey, just wondering… do you not play guitar?”

 

Anders laughs a little and shakes his head.  He pokes the end of the pencil he’s using into the hole at the knee of his jeans and jiggles it, then pulls it out again.  “Yeah?  A little.  I don’t think you’d call what I do  _ playing _ guitar though.”  He laughs, “More like murdering it.  It just never really interested me much.”

“Weird,” Hawke tells him, then pops the cigarette back between his lips, his fingers returning to the strings.  Anders shrugs and pulls his knees up to his chest, resting the notepad on them.  “Not really.  Or I don’t think so.  You only play guitar, it’s not like rocket science.”

 

Hawke grins, and stops playing to take the cigarette out of his mouth.  He taps ash from the end and tells Anders mock seriously,  “It is the way I play it.”

“Oh Maker, now we see the ego.”  Anders pokes Hawke on the arm with his pencil, the chewed end still wet with spit.  “Lead guitarists are all the same.”

“Okay, one, that’s fucking gross.  Look what you did to that pencil, and then you touched me with it.”  Hawke wipes at the imaginary spot, and smirks, “And two, you wanna talk about ego, lead vocalists are all ego.  You all reckon you’re the Maker’s gift, like when you did that Andraste on an amplifier thing when we supported Maleficar.  That was fuckin’ priceless.”

 

“Andraste on an amplifier,” Anders chuckles, then sobers.  “Yeah well.  I could see what was going on down the back there.  And I know that guy; he’s the kind of guy who only comes to those Sewer gigs to scope out mage girls.  He’s a psycho… the kind of guy who gets holy starburst tattoos and listens to Red Dogs of Violent Death, goes to Chantry every Sunday knowing that it’ll forgive him for whatever he did on Saturday.  You want to talk gross,  _ that’s _ gross.  That’s disgusting.”

 

Hawke snorts and nods.  There is definitely a type that gravitates toward Red Dogs of Violent Death, and Anders seems to have described them rather accurately.  _ Any band that’d call their first album  _ Kill the Abomination _ have got to be pretty hardcore into all that Chantry shit _ , he thinks, and sneers.  Carver kind of liked them; he’d seen a couple of their records at Fenris’ apartment too.   _ Doesn’t mean anything _ , he tells himself, and then sighs, looking back down to the guitar.  He plays a little bit more, tries a progression and then idles back to an old Warhound song.  He sees Anders smirk as he recognises it, and then stops playing.  “You got the time?” he asks.

Anders looks at his watch and smiles slightly.  “Quarter to three,” he tells Hawke, and sighs.  “I better get going.  I’m meeting Karl soon.”

 

Hawke grunts noncommittally.  Anders seems pretty into this Karl guy.  And that’s not a bad thing, because Hawke has Fenris.  He thinks.  It’s not like it’s official, but they have been hanging out a bit.  Well.  No, they’ve been fucking.  It’s not like they’ve even been on a date, but Hawke’s sure that’ll come.   _ You just gotta grow some balls and ask him, _ he tells himself, and almost laughs.  He swallows and smiles, looks down at his fingers.  “You guys been together a while, huh?”

“Yeah.  A long time.  Well, you know, off and on.  Kinda like high school sweethearts, if you can have that sort of thing in a Circle.”  Hawke looks at him, and Anders shrugs.  “We were at Kinloch together.  In Fereldan.”

 

“Shit, dude,”  Hawke draws breath and blows it out again, thinking.  His father had been there; had never spoken of his time in the Circle.  But when Hawke’s magic began to manifest, he still remembers his father’s face at the little flame he had kindled in his hand - horror, and then a fierce, protective pride.  That night there had been a terrible row between Malcolm and Leandra.  All Hawke really remembers, apart from the feeling of Bethany and Carver both shivering against him in his tiny bed was the sound of his father snarling,  _ He’s not going, and that’s it, Lea.  He’s not going, and the Maker can do as he likes with me for keeping him out of that hellhole.   _ Hawke frowns, shakes his head, then asks, “So… Karl’s registered?  But you’re not, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Anders says, “No way you’d get me back in one of those places.  For the education and protection of mages, my ass.  But Karl teaches there - it means he has certain benefits that your ordinary insider doesn’t get.  He still has to abide the curfew, but he can get passes out in the evening.” Anders sighs, and smiles a little, “He says it’s better than nothing.  After so long of nothing, of not seeing him at all, I’ll give him that.”  He shakes his head, looks at Hawke from the side of his eye and his grin turns mischievous, “What about you though?  When are we going to meet this mystery man of yours?  This Fenris?” Anders laughs, flaps the soggy pencil end toward Hawke again and says, “Sounds like a made-up name to me.”

 

“He does exist, if that’s what you’re insinuating,” Hawke says haughtily, and then chuckles.  “No way am I imaginative enough to think of a name like  _ Fenris _ .”  He cocks his head, looks toward the entrance of the park and frowns.  “Hey,” he says, nudging Anders, “Isn’t that Karl now?”

Anders looks over, and his face changes.  As Karl approaches, a huge smile on his face, his hands thrust deep into the light olive green anorak he wears, Anders’ eyes light up, and he grins; Hawke watches as he scrambles to his feet.  “So in wuuuuv,” he murmurs, laughing, ignoring the twist in his guts.  If only things were this easy between him and Fenris.  Seeing Anders look at Karl, the way his face is lit from within by a pure, unutterable joy, it makes him acutely aware of what he’s missing.  He sighs and shakes his head.  

 

“Tal!  Come here!” Anders calls, and Hawke gets up, dusting his butt off with the hand not holding the neck of his guitar.  He then takes the done cigarette out of his mouth and pitches it to the ground, grinding it into the turf as he walks.  He looks up in time to see Anders take Karl’s hand, there in the golden late afternoon light, and he shakes his head.   _ Fucking picture post card romance, _ he thinks grumpily, then smiles obligingly and says, “Hey, Karl.  How’s it going?”

 

Karl nods, puts out his hand, which Hawke shakes.  “Good.  Yourself?”

Hawke shrugs, gestures at Anders, “Better since this one got involved.  With Fader, I mean.  Clearly he knows a winning horse, your man.”

Karl smiles at him, and looks at Anders.  “He’s a smart guy.  Sometimes, at least.”

“Smart enough to stick with you, love,” Anders tells him, and kisses the back of Karl’s hand.  They look at each other and Hawke rolls his eyes, “Excuse me, I need a bucket.  Anyone have a bucket handy?”  he says loudly to the empty park, and then makes gagging noises.  Karl laughs, and Anders shakes his head.  “Ah well,” he says idly, and smirks as he swings Karl’s hand, “Have fun with your imaginary boyfriend.  I’m going to take my real life specimen out for dinner.  Well…” He grins a little shamefacedly, and looks at Karl, “He’s going to take me out.  One day, we’ll have gigs that pay better than free beer, hopefully.”

 

“You better believe it,” Hawke tells him, and scratches his nose.  He sighs, looks at the failing day.  “Well, don’t let me keep you.  Bit of an early dinner, though isn’t it?”  He grins cheekily and asks, “Early bird specials?”

Anders looks at him wryly, arching an eyebrow.  “Who says we were going to eat right away?  Have to work up an appetite first.”

Karl laughs and shakes his head.  “So subtle.  That’s why I love you, sweetheart.”

“Oh fucking  _ blergh _ ,” Hawke groans, and then makes a shooing gesture, “Maker’s Balls, don’t let me keep you then.  Thanks for the mental image, by the way.”  His mouth goes dry as his mind supplies him with exactly that - an image of all that fine red-gold hair against a white pillowcase, freckled shoulders slick with sweat, cream and umber skin smooth under his hands.  He swallows and grins.  “Be off with you.  See you tomorrow for the gig, ‘kay?  We’re meeting at Varric’s, he’s got someone he wants us to meet, yeah?”

 

Anders flaps his hand.  “Yeah, yeah.  See you then.”  Hawke shakes his head - he sees Anders is distracted, but supposes if he was in Anders’ position he would be too.  Karl’s cute, in a nerdy kind of way; maybe that’s the appeal.  Still, he seems sweet, and at the end of it, who really cares who Anders is seeing?   _ I do _ , a little part of Hawke’s mind tells him, and he tells himself it’s just because they are friends, of course it is - he cares about all his friends and their happiness.  He shifts, puts his hand in his pocket, and sighs.  Time to be going home.

 

-|||-

 

He finds his mother flapping about in the kitchen, all of a dither.  “Oh!  Taliesin,” she says, and rushes over, pressing a piece of paper into his hand.  “Now, I have a class starting in twenty minutes, and I’ll be gone until ten.  Make sure you take the casserole out of the oven at half past five, and put the potatoes,” she gestures over her shoulder to a pot on the stove, “on at six.  That way Gamlen will have dinner all ready for when he gets back.  I’ve written it all down for you - don’t forget!”

“Mum, holy shit, what is this about a class?  What are you…”

“I told you, dear,” she says in an exasperated tone of voice, “I’m teaching down at the Centre.   _ You _ know, the CSOL classes.”  She sees his blank look and puts one hand on her hip, raising an eyebrow, “Common for speakers of other languages?  Honestly, Taliesin, do you listen to  _ anything  _ I say?”

“Nope,” he tells her blithely, and grins at her look of reproof, “Of course I do, Mum.  I just forgot.  It’s great that you’re getting out and about.”

 

“It’s more than that, Taliesin.”  She sighs, and comes toward him.  After a moment, she reaches up and puts a hand on his cheek.  “I don’t want to live like this longer than I have to.  And… and Bethy, and your dad… they wouldn’t have wanted me to either.  Either of us, darling.  We have to start getting on our feet, stop messing around.  Nobody’s going to help us if we don’t help ourselves.”

Hawke looks at her, and thinks he hears the echo of  _ grow up _ underneath her words.  He stiffens, on the defensive, and asks, “So, it’s a paying thing, huh?  That’s… pretty good.  Well done.  Have fun boring immigrant Antivan’s and Rivaini half to death conjugating verbs all night.”  He smirks and she pats his cheek, slightly harder than is necessary, though she is smiling too.  

“Ah, my boy.  I intend to.  Have fun listening to your uncle rage at the television all night,” she tells him brightly, then laughs.  It is the first honest laugh he’s heard out of her in months, and that alone cheers him.  Then her face falls and she says, “Oh, Flames, look at the time!  I’ve got to go, Taliesin, remember the casserole!”

 

“Yes, Mum!” he chirrups as she snags her handbag from its hook and flies out the door.  It slams behind her, and he sighs into the suddenly empty house.  Aimlessly, he goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge, staring at its contents.  He takes a beer after a few minutes, more to justify opening the fridge in the first place, and closes it again.  There is last week’s issue of Philliam on the end of the counter, still where he’d left it this morning, and he takes it, popping it under his arm as he goes upstairs to his room.

 

The beer sits, mostly undrunk, next to him on the floor.  Casually, Hawke smokes and turns pages idly, not really thinking about much.   _ Perhaps Mum’s right _ , he wonders,  _ perhaps I do need to grow up.  It’d be a nice dream if Fader happened, but… how often does that work out?  More half-assed pub bands in the world than there are famous rock acts; and do you really want to be one of those middle aged gits on stage on a Wednesday night, your paunch and your sedan and going home to your lonely little apartment?  Fuck that.  Better to give it up now and be the best damn…  _ But he knows there is nothing else he wants.  What would he do, if he were to go down the path of the ordinary?  He honestly can’t think of anything, and he laughs out loud at himself.

 

The laughter dies as he sees the photo on the next page.  Carver.  It’s Carver, looking directly at the camera, sneering.  He looks thinner, more grown up; truth be told, he looks fucking wonderful.  The black-and-white print job does him no justice at all and he  _ still _ looks wonderful.  As Hawke scans the article, a puff piece if ever he read one, phrases leap out at him:  _ talented new blood; rising star of the punk scene; a small time rock act with his older brother. _

 

Hawke cringes at that last one, and looks up, across to the opposite wall.   _ Fuck you _ , he thinks, and stares back down at the photograph.  The image swims before his eyes, and before he realises what he’s doing, he’s torn the magazine down the middle, cheap newsprint rending under his hands.  The more he tries to stop himself the worse the impulse becomes, until his lap is covered with strips of paper, and his hands are sweaty and grubby with ink.  He looks at the mess, suddenly ashamed of his reaction, and knows he has to get out, get out of here.  Do something.

 

-|||-

 

He is on his way to the Sewer, later that night, hoping to meet Isabela, when he sees it.  Brand new posters, gig posters they look, black and white - the look is stark, the font almost austere in its lack of ornamentation.  It takes him a moment to register and then his mouth drops open, and he feels tension crawl over his shoulders.  _ Imperium Music/Freedom Records present Lycanthrope _ , the poster reads,  _ Bait and Switch Tour.  _  There are dates, numbers underneath, the names of venues across the Marches and further afield, a festival.  The blood boils in Hawke’s ears and he walks toward the poster, blinking.  He puts his hands against the wall which the poster is glued onto, and simply stares into the black space between the white letters.  _ He’s leaving,  _ he thinks,  _ he’s leaving you.  He’s going on tour, and he hasn’t told you jack.  You’re just a little groupie fuck, no matter what he says.   _ He gasps, and his hands clench into fists against the wall.   _ You fuckin’ idiot.  You fell for the big green eyes and the don’t give a fuck attitude and the sob story.  What a fuckin’ idiot.   _ A knot of rage tightens within him, and he hammers on the wall ineffectually, then kicks at it.  “Fuck you!” he shouts, and kicks the wall  with the poster on it again, “Fuck you, you idiot!”

 

And suddenly, Hawke doesn’t want to see anyone.  He wants to get wasted alone, get high and drink until he passes out.  He doesn’t want to think; not about his go-nowhere life, the fact that he has no money or none to speak of; not about his maybe-boyfriend going away for a three month period, and the possibility that he’ll never come back and what that might mean, and certainly not about his traitorous jackass of a brother.   _ You’re a failure _ , some part of his brain whispers, and he nods.  And then his fists clench and he turns, walking away from the Sewer, back toward the docks and the dealers there, the 24 hour liquor outlets.   _ Not at everything, _ he thinks,  _ I handle adult emotional issues extremely well.  Top of the fucking class in that one. _

 

Hours later, the cracks are shifting silently across the vast off white wasteland of the ceiling.  They move with an unconscious grace that seems strangely benign, or at least it does to Hawke.  The Fade stretches before him, around him, within him, unleashed by the lyrium; he feels it unfurling, wrapping tendrils around his body, soft, secure.  Somewhere, from very far away a strange bell chimes, incessant, ravaging.  It is so far away though, and his body weighs so much, so he does not seek it, only listens with an apathetic disinterest as it rings and rings and rings, then suddenly stops.  The cracks stretch and yawn suggestively, opening up before him, the openings they make exposing a deep green sky, the dappled gold and green of the iris of Fenris’ eye, they drip a viscous liquid on him, a honey essence and he laughs and touches his mouth, tastes it on his fingers, cloying, sweet.  He hears a shouting in the distance, and then a face is looming over him, cutting him off from the sky-eye and the honey, and he moans as this old man glares at him and asks, “Fuckin’ hell.  You’re high as a kite, aren’t you?”  Whoever it is grins evilly at him, and says, gusting his rancid breath into Hawke’s face, “Get downstairs, kid.  You got a phonecall.”

 

Phonecall.  Phonecall?  Phone?   _ What is that _ ? wonders Hawke, and finds himself halfway down the stairs. He catches himself before he falls, and the old man laughs.  Hawke laughs as well, a high, delighted sound.  The room won’t stop moving, even though he’s fairly sure his feet have stopped.  He feels the bright blaze of his magic inside himself, and Maker, he feels like he could fuck the world tonight, he is so powerful, there is nothing but rightness inside him.  The old man thrusts something at him, and Hawke stares at it, smiling gently.  “Phone?” the old man tells him, and Hawke nods.  “Phone,” he agrees, nodding again like a child. The old man waggles it, then rolls his eyes.  “No, dummy, phone.  Phone call,” he repeats loudly, and then sighs with relief when Hawke takes it. Hawke looks at the receiver, at the cord which joins the square base to the mouthpiece, and then puts his finger into the rotary dial.  “No,” the old man tells him, “No, Maker’s Balls, I’ll just…”

 

“Hawke!” comes a voice from within the receiver, and Hawke looks at it, then holds it closer to his ear.  The voice comes again, saying his name, and it sounds like his voice, so Hawke says his name too. “Fenris?” he asks, and loves the feel of it in his mouth so much that he says it again. “Fenris,” pulling out the sibilant hiss at the end, “Fenris,” turning it booming and powerful, “Fenris,” whispered gently, and then he gets stuck a little, only repeating, “Fen, Fen, Fen…”

 

“Are you alright?” comes the voice, and Hawke smiles.  “Hmm,” he says, then smiles lazily, “Might be a little bit high.”

The old man, still standing in front of him, snorts and walks away, pulling his tattered dressing gown tighter over his chest as he does.  There is a snort at the other end of the line too, and then Fenris says, “I… wondered if you wanted to come over.  But this is not the time.  I’ll speak to you…”

“No,” Hawke manages, “I’ll come.”  He giggles and says, “If you do.  I’ll lick it off you like you did last time.  Or you could probably just talk me into it here on the phone.  I’m pretty fuckin’ high.”  Something in his mind clicks, and he says, “Better get used to phone sex.  You’re going away.”

 

A silence, awkward and fraught.  Hawke thinks he hears Fenris’ breathing at the other end of the line change - and as soon as he becomes conscious of it, that’s all he hears. He closes his eyes, imagines Fenris’ lungs filling with air, his heart beating, pushing the blood around his body, and wonders if it were true, if the rumours of what blood magic could do were true, if he could make Fenris stay.  He opens his eyes, looking about the darkened hallway guiltily, and pushes a hand through his hair, feeling more sober, wishing he was.  “S’okay, Fen.  S’okay.  Forget it.  I’ll come.  We don’t have to talk about it.  I’ll do what you want, okay?  S’okay.”

 

“Hawke,” Fenris says, then his voice changes, “Tal.  I… I swear, I was going to tell you.  I just…”

“S’fine,” Hawke says, “I don't mind.  S’what you do, isn’t it?  You gotta, it’s just your job, it doesn’t mean anything.  Doesn’t mean jack.  You could tell me anything, and I’d still get down on my knees and suck your cock, still beg you to put your cock in my ass, you can tell me anything you like, I don’t care.  You do what you want.”  He can hardly breathe now, but still the words pour out, “I don’t care.  It’s really fine.  I like it better this way.  No commitments, right?”  He laughs bitterly, and Fenris’ breath is shaky static on the line until he says, loudly enough to make Hawke pause, “You’re not yourself tonight.  We should talk when you have your head right.”

 

Hawke licks his lips and closes his eyes, pressing the fingers and thumb of the hand not holding the phone into them.  “Yeah,” he says softly, “Yeah.  I’m a bit fucked for this.”  It is on his tongue to apologise, but he sets his jaw and it doesn’t come.  He takes his hand away from his face and asks, “You… you still wanna come to our gig?  You’re coming, right?”

“Yes.  I’ll be there,” Fenris tells him quietly, and then says, “Hawke.  You might not care, but…”

“Don’t worry about it, Fen,” Hawke tells him, riding right over the top of whatever it was that Fenris was going to say, “Hey, you’re right.  I’m not myself tonight.  It’s fine.  I’ll be fine.”  A pregnant pause, and then Hawke says, “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

 

“Alright,” Fenris says, and then hangs up.  That’s it, just the one word, and then a click and the dialtone.  Hawke looks at the receiver, feeling nauseous, wrung out, and puts it back onto the cradle.  He leans against the wall, sliding down it to crouch there in the hallway, unable to summon the will or the energy to climb the stairs back up to his room.  The house is silent but for the thrumming of his own heart, and the strange, subtle shifts of the Fade around him.  He sighs.

 

-|||-

 

“Tal!” Varric grins and shakes his hand, and Hawke grins right back at him.  He inclines his head to the dwarf, and raises an eyebrow.

“Varric, very dashing.  Love the open neck on you, you old dog.”  He waggles his eyebrows and makes a show of staring at Varric’s chest, “Look at that pelt.  If I find a spell which would shrink me small enough, I’d go right ahead and nest in your chest hair.  It’s  _ gorgeous _ .”

 

Varric laughs and shakes his head.  “You know, it’s kind of refreshing not to have the ‘oh, did your beard fall onto your chest’ jokes? I’ll take completely inappropriate compliments any day.”

Hawke smirks and sketches a bow, “You’re welcome.”  He follows Varric into the tiny living area, and Merrill instantly smacks into him, throwing herself into his arms.  “Tal, I’m so happy!  I can’t wait to play tonight!  It’s going to be so great.  Oh, which guitar are you playing?  Is this the Traitor’s Daughter one?”

Hawke squeezes her to him with the hand not holding the hard bodied guitar case, and grins.  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“He only has the one, kitten,” Isabela calls, and then smiles at Hawke, “Hey, think fast, fuck face.”

 

She throws a beercan overarm, across the room.  “Shit!” Hawke yelps, and Merrill ducks, covering her head and laughing.  Hawke drops the guitar case and fumbles the catch, his hands slipping on the condensation, then breathes a sigh of relief when he realises his grip is stable.  He stares at the beercan in his hands, hearing the shocked laughter in the room, and then laughs himself.  “Hey, Izzy,” he says, and looks up at her.  Slowly, he straightens, and flips her the bird, “Fuck you.”

She laughs and shrugs, looking at Anders.  “Pony up,” she smiles at him, holding out her palm to him and Anders sighs.  “Okay,” he says, “Double or nothing the guitar is chipped?”

 

“Pffft,” Isabela sneers, “It was chipped the first week he got it.  No bet.”  

The woman standing next to Isabela looks on with a mild expression of disapproval on her face.  She looks at Hawke, who looks down at Merrill and says quietly, “Who’s that?”

“Avie!”  Varric calls, and beckons to her.  The woman rises from the stool she’s sitting on and crosses the room, stepping over Anders’ legs.  However, this new woman - Avie, obviously - is holding out her hand to him and telling him, “My name is Aveline Vallen.  Varric contacted me.  Said you needed a sound engineer.  And a manager.”

“Um,” is all Hawke has for her, and looks at Varric, who grins and shrugs.  

“I know people,” is all he says, and Hawke blinks.  

“Okay,” he says, shifting his gaze back to Aveline.  “Okay.  Um.  We can’t pay you, you know that, right?”

 

She chuckles a little, and he sees the gruff exterior for what it is - nervousness.  “I know that.  I heard you guys at the Sewer a couple of weeks ago.  A guy I work with,” Aveline colours brilliantly, scarlet flaring across her features suddenly, and she frowns deeply, “We went to see you.  Well, we were there for Dane and the Werewolves.  I’m Fereldan, you see, and…”  she shakes her head suddenly, and sniffs, raising her chin.  “Anyway,” she tells him harshly, “I trained as a sound engineer back home.  And I’ve done enough live gigs to make it work.  I think.  So, if you wanted to, that’d…”

 

“Shit yeah.  I mean, if you’re willing to do it for like, no money, then yeah, the price is right.  And whatever comes out of it, if anything comes out of it, then that’d be amazing.  Even if it’s something we can shop around.  But it might come to nothing, so if you’re…”

Aveline nods.  “I’m in.”  She smiles slightly, and says, “As long as I get free beer with the band…”

“Oh, that goes without saying,” Hawke tells her.  He likes her already; she’s severe, and doesn’t seem like she’d tolerate much bullshit, which is definitely in her favour.  One thing that she’s said rises to the top of his mind and he cocks his head to ask, “You’re Fereldan?”

 

Aveline nods.  “Came over during the Blight.”  She swallows and shakes her head.  “I’d rather not talk about it, it’s all the same to you.”

Hawke nods.  “Yeah, ‘course.”  He takes a deep breath and says, “So, what’s this about managing?”

Aveline smiles dryly.  “From what Varric’s been telling me, you lot couldn’t find a gig if it was stapled to your faces, so I can’t imagine how you’re going to score representation at a label.  You need someone to do that kind of crap for you.  I’ve got nothing better to do obviously, so…”

 

“You win by default,” Hawke laughs.  He pulls the tab on his beer and it froths out, over his knuckles.  “Aw, fuck sake, Izzy!” he yells, holding the beercan away from himself, and Isabela laughs.  Quickly, she is joined by Anders, Merrill and Varric, while Aveline shakes her head sadly.  “See?” she says, taking the beercan away from Hawke, and striding over to the kitchen with it.  She dumps it in the sink and throws Hawke a dish towel, then quickly finds the draw with the rest of the towels in it.  She grabs a handful, then opens the fridge and retrieves a fresh beer, which she crams awkwardly into the top of her jeans.  As she re-crosses the room, she tells him, “This is why you need a manager.  To save you, and the rest of the world, from yourselves.  You make a mess, I deal with it.  All you have to do is be on time, in a state of at least semi-consciousness.”  She smiles at Hawke’s held-out hand, and stuffs it full of dish towels, telling him, “The Maker helps those that help themselves, Taliesin.  No beer until this shit is cleaned up.”

 

He laughs, and looks at Varric.  “I like her,” he says, then salutes Aveline.  “Yes ma’am, thank you ma’am,” he says, and then glares daggers at Isabela.  “Don’t think you’ve heard the last of this one, petal.  I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.”

Isabela laughs, and asks, “Does this face look worried?  Come on, you dorks, lets go.  I got a good feeling about this gig.  Bring on the chaos.”

Hawke wipes at the beer on his jeans and grins at her.  Fenris’ face floats in his minds eye, and the grin turns to a grimace and he looks down again at his damp jeans.  He is determined not to kill the mood this close to a show however, so he takes a deep, quiet breath and smiles harder, before looking up at Isabela and telling her,  “That sounds like a plan to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No music notes for this chapter, but like the nerdy nerd I am, there is a representation of [the Lycanthrope poster](http://littlexabyss.tumblr.com/post/145250407584/lycanthropeposterbaittour) over on tumblr. And yeah, there will be more gig posters for this too, which I'll link to when they become relevant...


	10. Chapter 10

The crowd are right up the front, rapturous, shouting up to Anders.   _ No talk _ , Anders sings, almost into Hawke’s ear, ... _ And all action!  No talk and all action! _  Hawke smirks, watching from the corner of his eye as Anders slides a hand down his own chest, arching his hips forward.  Isabela stands on the other side, at Anders’ back, hair hanging in her face, moving her hips in a sinuous motion, eyes closed.  It’s beautiful, this moment; nearly at the end of the set, and the feeling of both anticipation and release and… yeah, poignancy, really, that little moment when the knowledge that this too will become memory is almost upon him.  This is their last song for the set, and although Witches Hammer are on next, he gets the feeling that at least some of this crowd are there because of them.  Fader.  And fuck, that feels so good; after everything that’s happened over the last few days, it feels so good to be wanted, needed here.   _ Better than sex, _ he thinks, and snorts laughter.  Not quite.  But close.  Close.

 

Back in the backstage area, after their set, and Hawke laughs, unable to hear himself for the buzzing in his ears.  “What?” he yells to Merrill, and she smiles. 

“Good show, wasn’t it? Are your ears alright?  I’m going to go and find Isabela, I wanted to see Witches Hammer too, I like them a lot.  Tal?  Can you hear me alright?  Or are your ears fucked?”  She grins at the look of incomprehension on his face and shakes her head.  “Maybe Anders can help?”

 

“Okay!” he says, unaware of how loudly he’s speaking, and gives her the thumbs up.  She laughs, punches him in the arm lightly (a trait, he cannot help but notice, that she’s picked up from Isabela), and crams her drumsticks in the back pocket of her cut off jeans before she flounces away.  He sighs, and looks at Anders, then back down.  He closes the clasps on his guitar case, and rubs his ears, and glances up again in time to see Anders smile wryly.  He approaches Hawke, who stands, looking at him confusedly.  Anders holds out both his hands, his eyebrow raised in mute question.  When Hawke nods, Anders places one hand on either side of his head.  His hands are warm on his ears, and Hawke sighs.  He feels a warm, almost liquid sensation flow from Anders’ hands, and his head feels suddenly pressurized.  He swallows, frowns, and then the sensation diminishes.  Anders takes his hands away, and Hawke notices the buzzing has gone.  He looks at Anders, who shrugs.  “You should wear protection,” he says.

 

“I do, I’m very responsible like that.  Nothing like a mild and disgusting case of warts to make you reconsider all your life’s decisions.” He looks at Anders quickly, sees the raised eyebrows and clears his throat, smirking, “Lesson learnt,” Hawke finishes blithely, and Anders snorts.  

 

“Not that kind of protection,” he says, “Hearing protection.  That buzzing you hear?  That’s the swan song of your eardrums.  It’s not a good idea to rely on healing, you know.  I can’t heal what’s gone for good.”  He rubs his hands together and looks at Hawke, smiling slightly.  Hawke smiles back, and it seems almost simultaneously, they become aware of how close they’re standing, how alone they are in this empty room.  Anders clears his throat, takes a step back, and Hawke turns, squatting down next to his guitar case again, utterly at a loss.  Anders seems to be having this effect on him lately.  And Maker, it makes him uncomfortable, makes him feel guilty, ashamed at the little part of his mind that assures him Anders would be easier, Anders is  mage, Anders isn’t going anywhere.   _ Anders has a boyfriend _ , he tells himself sternly, and swallows.

 

“Right,” Hawke says, in an effort to clear the sudden silence.  There are footfalls behind him in the corridor and the door swings open.  Hawke does not look around, but Anders frowns, looking at the newcomer and asks, “You alright?”

“Hawke,” Fenris says, and Hawke stiffens, then turns.   _ He’d said he would come _ , he reminds himself,  _ don’t be so surprised to see him. _  “I need to talk to you.  Alone.”

 

Anders makes a face and pulls himself up to his full height.  Hawke looks at his hands for a moment, feeling tense, unnerved, and Anders glances at him and asks, “Do you know this guy?”

Hawke nods.  He licks his lip, then wipes his mouth. “Yeah.  Anders?  This is Fenris.”

 

“Fenris!  You do exist!”  Anders exclaims happily, “I thought that Tal was…”

“Are you coming?” Fenris asks, completely ignoring Anders, and Anders stops talking, affronted.  

“It’s okay, Fen.  I’ll be out in a sec,” Hawke tells him, but Anders shakes his head.  

“That’s just rude,” he says.  Slowly, he walks toward Fenris, who raises his chin and looks at Anders as if for the first time.  Anders smiles, although his eyes are narrowed.  He stops in front of Fenris and looks at him appraisingly, then asks, “Shall we start again?  I’m Anders.  It’s nice to meet you, but don’t talk to my friend like that.  He’ll come when he’s ready.  So you can just go back outside and...”

 

“Why don’t you shut up?”  Fenris growls suddenly.  Hawke rises, and looks from one to the other;  Fenris is glaring at Anders, and Anders is staring at him belligerently.  “I wasn’t talking to you, this is none of your business.”

“You made it my business,” Anders tells him, “I don’t tolerate that kind of rudeness, and I don’t expect my friends to either.  This is the  _ backstage _ area.  It’s for  _ performers. _  So kindly fuck off, before I shoot lightning at you.”

 

“Figures, you’d be a mage,” Fenris snarls, and shakes his head.  He looks at Hawke finally, to ask, “Are you staying, or coming with me?”

Hawke nods, still wordless, and then he bends, picking up his guitar.  He glances briefly at Anders, who frowns and shakes his head.  “Sorry, man, I gotta go,” Hawke mumbles, and crosses the tiny room.  Anders huffs and mutters, “You don’t  _ have _ to do anything,” but Hawke doesn’t turn around, just takes Fenris’ proffered hand, and hurries out of the room.

 

Fenris doesn’t speak for a long moment.  They walk hand in hand down the tunnel back to the main bar, not hurrying, and then Fenris sighs.  “You dropped time on your second track, and Isabela could stand new strings.  She needs to bear down harder on the A.  Your drummer is enthusiastic, and has a good knack for the basics, but she allows her enthusiasm to control her too much, and loses focus.  The fourth track and the last need back up vocals to fill out the sound.  Anders’ lyrics are… sufficient.  Good, actually.  But he resorts to yelling when he’s worked up, and it ruins everything.  It was quite a good set, those things considered.”

 

Hawke is lost for words for a moment, and then he snorts.  “Hello!” he says brightly, defensiveness making him sarcastic, “Yes, it was a lot of fun, thank you Fenris, I’d love a drink.  What a good set, I enjoyed myself immensely, and wasn’t it nice to see how well our new guy fits in?  How was your day?”

 

Fenris stiffens and then sighs a laugh, shakes his head.  “I am sorry.”  There is a moment more quiet, the noise of the music from the main room a muffled boom, and then Hawke stops.  Fenris stops as well, looking at him quizzically, then Hawke says, “Nah.  You’re right about those things.  And you’re right… we do need to talk.  Me and you.”  Fenris nods, and his mouth works a little before he looks at the ground.  His hand tightens on Hawke’s, then loosens, and somehow, this small unspoken gesture breaks Hawke’s heart - it is almost as if Fenris is preparing to let him go.  Hawke shakes his head; he doesn’t want that.  But until they speak about it, until they get it out, he has no way of making Fenris understand this.  So he bites his lips together and tries a smile, and allows himself to be pulled along the tunnel, out into the noise again.

 

-|||-

 

They sit next to each other on the sofa, awkward.  The silence in the room is stifling, and the emotions that pitch and roll through Hawke are contradictory, cruel.  One moment, he resents Fenris his fame, the fact that he will tour on such a large scale - from the Marches down to Fereldan, and across to Nevarra and Orlais, through Antiva and up to Rivain, though Tevinter is conspicuously absent from the schedule.  The next, he feels guilt surge within him as he remembers that Fenris will be deliberately putting himself back into harm's way to finish this tour, to round out his contract with Imperium and be able to leave free and clear.  And the fact that he’s famous at all, it was not of his making - Fenris has mentioned in oblique references the fact that he was not able to secure royalties from any previous albums in order to have Imperium - Danarius, really - relinquish the copyright and performance rights of songs that he himself had written.  Hawke takes a deep breath and swallows.  He licks his lips and says, “So.  This is nice.”

 

“What is?”  Fenris asks, and he sounds bitter, lost.  Hawke hears him take a deep breath, and looks at Fenris from the side of his eye.  He smiles ruefully, “This talk we’re so successfully having.”

Fenris huffs, somewhere between a laugh and a noise of frustration.  “I… am silent because I am unsure how to begin.  You know I am touring soon, going away for three months, perhaps longer if dates get extended.  And though my affairs with Imperium are settled, who knows how things will change over the coming months.”  Those words hang in the air, and Hawke swallows noisily.  “I can say nothing that will improve or change this situation.  I can only… I can…”  He sighs and takes Hawke’s hand, stumbling into silence once more.  

 

Without looking at Fenris now, Hawke speaks.  “I know.  I know you can’t change the shit you’ve got to do, and I know how much this means to you - getting out from under Imperium.  How much you’ve lost to make this happen.  But Fen…”  And the floodgates burst, all the worry and the tension, they flow from him as words as he says, “I’m scared, I’m scared you’re gonna, y’know, you’re gonna go away and you’ll find someone new, someone better, and you’ll never come back, and I’ll just be here, and I’ll never know what happened to you.  And I feel like what we have is kind of special, or it could be, if we fucking… I don’t know, if we talked to each other, which we don’t, and I know it’s easier not to, because I mean… I’m scared to hurt you, I don’t wanna hurt you, ‘cause… I mean, it seems like people like me have hurt you enough already. I’m not fucking dense, I see you flinch when I use my magic, and… and I just…”  He rubs a hand over his mouth, and mutters between his fingers, “I think I love you.  But I… I don’t know why, or if that would even be something you’d want.  I’m sorry.”

 

Silence blooms once more.  Fenris’ hand slides out from Hawke’s grip, and he rests it on his thigh.  His voice is thick when he says, “You have nothing to apologise for.  I should have told you earlier.  This… this is all happening very fast.  Perhaps too fast.  And perhaps we could… we would both be better off if we did not let things continue.”  

 

Hawke shakes his head, slowly at first, and then says, desperately, too loud, “No.  No, Fen, I’m not gonna be better off, please, don’t…”

“You said it yourself, you are scared.  Scared to hurt me, scared you are not good enough.  Would it matter to you if I told you the same things?  That I feel the same way?”  He shakes his head, and Hawke looks quickly at his face, just in time to see his jaw work.  “I cannot do this.  It is too much, too soon.  And… and I am not ready.  Perhaps I will be one day - but I cannot let you wait for something that may not happen.”

 

“Maker, no,” Hawke whispers, and he covers his mouth again.  He shakes his head, “No.  No, Fen, I’ll wait, if you want me, and I want you, I love you, I’ll wait.  I don’t care if it’s fast, but we can slow it down, you do the tour and I’ll call you everyday, I’ll wait, I…”

“Weren’t you listening to anything I said?” Fenris asks him, and his voice is angry, abrupt.  Hawke quails slightly.  “I don’t  _ want _ you to wait.  It is not right of me to ask that of you, it is not right for you to give up your time for me.”  He rises quickly, walks to the other side of the room, fists clenched, shoulders hunched.  Hawke watches him, stricken, his stomach in knots.  His whole body is caught in the tension, straining so hard he feels his muscles shake slightly.  Finally, he tells Fenris, “Tell me to go then.  Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll go.”

 

When Fenris does not immediately reply, Hawke gets up.  Quietly, he walks to Fenris; quietly, takes his hand, kisses it, feels the rigid tension of the muscles in Fenris’ arm as he tries to resist and fails.  Gently, Hawke kisses Fenris’ wrist, each of his fingers in turn, the nail and knuckle of the thumb, both white under the pressure of Fenris’ fist.  Tentatively, he puts his hand around Fenris’ waist, not daring to look at his face, frightened of what he will see there as he kisses Fenris’ elbow, the joint of his shoulder, pulling him closer to kiss his neck, his ear.  He feels the wetness on Fenris’ cheek as he kisses the point of his jaw, and then Fenris whispers, “Hawke.  You are not making this easy.”

 

“I’ve never liked things the easy way,” Hawke replies, and he kisses the corner of Fenris’ mouth.  He is hoping for a smile, but all he sees is an incredible weight, oppressive, bleak, in Fenris’ eyes.  He swallows, and leans forward, whispering the words almost into Fenris’ mouth, “No more talking.  Please.  Please.”

 

Fenris pauses, and then nods slightly, bringing their lips together.  They kiss, Fenris’ hands on Hawke’s waist, moving restlessly along his back, and Hawke cannot help but wonder if this is a win or a loss.  Slow uncertainty still writhes within him, and even though he exalts in part that Fenris has not told him to go, there is a larger part of him which feels despondent, that this is the end of everything which might have bloomed between them.  A snatch of old song occurs to him:  _ this is the end _ , _ my only friend, the end _ , and even as Fenris pulls the fabric of Hawke’s t-shirt up his back, Hawke’s stomach sinks, that old song echoing around and around in his mind. 

 

-|||-

  
  
  


He wakes, days later, to the sound of his mother, singing in the bathroom.   _...Can I… believe… the magic of your sighs? _ she sings, slightly off-key, and the echoing quality of the acoustics give her words a ghostly feel,  _...Will you still love me… tomorrow? _  She hums a few bars and he smiles.  “Oi!” he yells, “Keep it down in there!  Some of us are trying to sleep!”

 

He hears her laugh, and then her tread down the hallway.  The door opens and she peeps around it, “Well, if  _ some of us _ weren’t sneaking in at the crack of dawn, again, perhaps  _ some of us _ wouldn’t be so grouchy.  It’s time to get up, Taliesin.  Your brother’s flight will be arriving soon!”  

He laughs, and rubs a hand over his eyes, itches his chest.  Fader had gigged last night, their first at the Hanged Man.  And yes, it was a Wednesday, and yes, not well attended, but it was a pretty decent set for all that.  Avie had grinned after they’d finished, told them she’d got some good recordings, she thought, and that she’d play them for them once she’d had a chance to go through them.  “Yeah, yeah,” he tells his mother, who smirks, “The big rock star’ll be back.  Big fucking deal.”

 

“Watch your tone, young man,” Leandra chides, then smiles again, shakes her head, “I know that you’re looking forward to seeing him.  You can’t fool me that easily.”  She sighs happily, and says, “Now get dressed please.  Oh, and your uncle wanted me to ask - any luck on the job hunt?”

 

Hawke slides his eyes away from hers and shrugs slightly.  “Oh, Taliesin,” she says disapprovingly, “You know you said you’d try.  You know, Quentin says that there are a few openings in the…”

“Hey… who’s Quentin?”  Hawke frowns, and Leandra smiles coyly and shrugs.  “Oh,” she tells him, “Just someone I met through the Centre.”  She clears her throat, and he grins at her, “Mum… do you have a boyfriend?”

 

“No,” she says quickly - too quickly, and he snorts.  

“Alright,” he says, entirely unconvinced, and then tells her, “You don’t have to be all fake-bashful about it.  I don’t mind; in fact, I think it’s cool.”  He grins cheekily and swings his legs over the side of the bed, “Nice to know there’s still a bit of life in the old girl.”

“Taliesin,” she tells him sternly, though he sees the smirk in the corner of her mouth, and he chortles.  

“Alright, alright.  The less I know about it, the happier I’ll be.  I guess.  As long as he’s good to you, I don’t care who he is.”  He thinks he sees her smile at this, and then she shakes her head.  “You’ve got half an hour still.  Why don’t you come downstairs and I’ll have a cup of tea ready?”

“Sweet talker,” he tells her, “You keep that up and I’ll begin to think we’re not related.”

She laughs and closes the door behind her, and he hears her resume singing as she descends the stairs.

 

-|||-

 

“Maker, mum, no, I’m stuffed,” Carver says and pushes his chair back, onto two legs.  He rubs his stomach and grins at her, and she pauses, server halfway to his plate, loaded with pie.  “It’s just a little bit, Carver,” she cajoles him, and smiles gently, “I made it special.  Peach, with custard.  Like we used to have back home.”

Carver’s shoulders sag, and he takes a deep breath, and Hawke laughs.  “Alright,” Carver says, as if there were really any choice.  Leandra beams at him and serves the pie, picks up the jug of custard and pours it liberally over the top.  “Mum, we’re not eating like this every night, are we?  I mean, I’m not trying to sound ungrateful…”

 

“...Doin’ a bad job of it,” Gamlen mutters, holding his plate out for a slice of pie.  Carver ignores him and continues, “Yeah, well… I just… I didn’t want to put you out.  I’m only here for a couple of days…”

“Nonsense, Carver!  Of course I wanted to give you a special welcome home dinner.  But I know you’ll probably want to go carousing with your brother as well, of course…” Leandra smiles at Hawke, who raises an eyebrow at her, and accepts his piece of pie quietly.  He looks across the table to Carver, who is toying with his custard, poking at it.  “Yeah,” Carver says, and sighs.  

 

Hawke narrows his eyes and puts a piece of pie into his mouth.  It’s a bit undercooked, but the custard is good.  His mum’s custard always is.  The sweet, vanilla-flavoured richness of it fills his mouth and he smiles.  He watches Carver for a moment, wondering at the quietness, the distraction, and then Carver spoons up a piece of pie, and puts it into his mouth.  “Good,” he says reassuringly, but there is an air of something forced about it which Hawke doesn’t like in the least.  He doesn’t say anything though, just lowers his eyes and keeps eating.  There will be time enough for questions later.

 

Carver puts down his spoon and looks at Hawke.  “You got any more gigs?  How’s Merrill shaping up?”

Hawke shifts in his chair, swallows his pie.  “Yeah, good.  We’re playing at the Pit tomorrow.  You’re in town ‘til Sunday, right?  Want to come?”  Carver nods, and Hawke continues, “Anders - that guy that Varric recommended, he’s our vocalist now.  Really kicks ass…”  Hawke makes a face and cuts his eyes to their mother, who flaps her hand, “He’s really good.  Whole new sound.”

“Cool,” Carver says, and puts another piece of pie in his mouth.  Leandra cocks her head and looks puzzled, then cranes her neck forward.  “Carver,” she says, “What is that in your ear?”

Carver frowns, looking at his plate, then mumbles, “An earring.”  

“Oh, Carver,” Leandra says disapprovingly, and Carver’s frown deepens.  

 

“Mum,” he tells her, and puts down his spoon, “Can we not do this, please?  It’s an earring.  I didn’t get it on a dare or anything stupid.  And even if I did…”  He looks at Hawke briefly, and then back to Leandra to say, “He’s done way more stupid shit than me, and he never seems to get the  _ Oh, Taliesin _ .”  Carver takes a deep breath, leaning back in his chair.  Hawke frowns at him, feeling awkward.  He knows their mother means well; but he also knows that deep in her heart of hearts, she is a snob.  She wanted more for them than their father’s life of itinerant musician, wanted to see them safely into business school or a law firm or some boring-ass thing.  A job for life, but no life to speak of.  He watches her open her mouth to respond, and then Gamlen butts in.  “You know why that is, kid?”  Carver just looks at him, shakes his head slightly, and Gamlen continues, grinning slightly, as if he feels he is stating the obvious, “Because your mum knows you’re destined for better things.  Tal, no offence or nothing, you’re a great guy,”  Gamlen waves his hand and looks at Hawke briefly, then continues, “But he’s one of them magic freaks, like your dad.  And that ain’t nothin’ against either of them, but they’re not normal, not like you and me and your mum.  You can’t expect the same things from a mage as you would with a normal kid.  Guess your mum’s just a wee bit disappointed.”

 

Silence at the table.  Hawke feels as if he’s stopped breathing.  It’s not the first time he’s been exposed to such a sentiment from Gamlen; it doesn’t shock him, but it still sends a curling twist of shame and anger through him.  He looks up from his plate, sees Leandra staring hard at her unfinished pie, sees Carvers neck is red with anger.  He opens his mouth, meaning to say something, anything, when Carver says, “Watch who you’re calling a freak.  That’s my family you’re talking about.”  His voice is shaking with rage, and he says, very quietly, “My brother is not a freak.  Neither was my sister, or my dad.  And if you like your teeth where they are, you better keep your fucking mouth shut on the subject, right?” Without waiting for an answer, Carver pushes his chair out from the table and stands.  The silence presses in, and Hawke watches as Gamlen seems to shrink in the towering strength of Carver’s indignation.  Finally, Carver huffs a breath, and says, “Thanks for dinner, Mum.  Sorry.  I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

 

Leandra only nods, and Carver takes his plate from the table.  They hear him scraping the pie into the rubbish, putting the plate in the sink, and then after a few more moments, the front door slams.  Hawke swallows.  “Maker’s Balls, what did I say?” Gamlen asks, spreading his hands wide.  Leandra looks daggers at him, and Gamlen frowns, “Oh, you married one of ‘em, and now you’re protecting ‘em?  Gimme a break, Lea!”

“Taliesin,” Leandra says, very quietly, without taking her eyes from Gamlen, “Go and find your brother.  I don’t like him out there so angry.  And you,” she says, pointing to her brother, “I think it’s time we had some words, don’t you?”

“Mum, I…”

“Just  _ go _ , Taliesin,” Leandra says, and her voice is all steel.  He raises his eyebrows, smirking at Gamlen as he thinks of the dressing down he’s about to receive.  He takes his own plate through to the kitchen, dumps it in the sink, and pounds up the stairs to fetch his coat.  Then, he descends them again quickly, and slams the front door behind him.

 

The wind whips cold around his ears, and he looks both ways, wondering where Carver has gone.  But no, there he is, the heavy khaki of his coat, his black pegged jeans and boots marching over the Kirkwall sidewalk.  Hawke smiles, jogs after the receding figure, and finally catches Carver on the corner before he turns.  “Oi, you git,” he says, and Carver sighs, and immediately says, “Did you volunteer, or did Mum send you?”

 

“A little of column A, a little of column B.  Wanna talk?”  Carver shakes his head, and Hawke shrugs.  “No skin off my nose if you don’t.  I don’t wanna listen to you whine anyway.”

Carver snorts, then looks at Hawke.  “Got a smoke?”

“Not for you I don’t, Mr That’s-a-Filthy-Habit,” Hawke smiles, and then frowns a little, “When did you take it up?”

“I dunno,” Carver says, and the look on his face is grim.  Hawke frown deepens, and he says, “C’mon.  Come and drink the watered down piss that the Sewer serves.  You can lord it over everyone, now you’re in a big time band.  Incidentally, how is everything?”

 

Carver looks at the ground, then shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at Hawke, smiling ruefully.  After a moments quiet, he shakes his head and says wonderingly,  “It’s fucking great, actually.  Al and Jean are… amazing, really nice.  I’ve met so many people, Tal; that Howe guy, he interviewed me for Philliam a couple of weeks ago and everything.  What’s his name again…?”

“I read that!”  Hawke pushes down the memories of how angry he’d been, and racks his brains for a first name, “Is it ...Nate?  Nate Howe?”

“Yeah, that’s him.  And I met Gwen and Fergus too, from Highever Orphan.  They’re pretty cool; and…”  He grins cheekily at Hawke, who raises an eyebrow.  “I hope this is all making you jealous, Tal.  You gotta haul ass, Fader could be big on this scene, man.  You got a manager yet?”

“Yeah, a couple of weeks ago.  We’re recording gigs now.  Varric’s talking us up too, we’re getting there… but what about the tour?”

“It’s so fucking good.  I mean, weird to be back in Fereldan - man, everything is fucked after the Blight.  So fucked.  But Al’s really into helping out - like, he nearly busted some Fortress rep for saying we couldn’t do benefit gigs, or donate a big chunk of the proceeds from album sales to the relief.  It’s gonna be cool to head up to Nevarra with Lycanthrope in a couple of weeks…”

Hawke’s stomach turns.  “Yeah.  I’m… we’re… I’m sort of seeing him.  Fenris.  Lycanthrope.”

 

Carver stops in the middle of the pavement, and a middle aged woman walks into him.  “Shit, sorry, ma’am…” Carver tells her, but she frowns, clutches her handbag to herself and hurries away.  He looks after her, perplexed, and then turns the same gaze to Hawke.  “You?  You’re seeing Lycanthrope?”  Carver blinks, then frowns, “And how can you be  _ sort of _ seeing him?  You either are or you aren’t… aren’t you?”

 

Hawke makes a face and shrugs, “Well… it’s… complicated.  Dunno.  I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Flames,” Carver says, and sighs frustratedly.  “You and your complicated relationships.”  He shakes his head, and Hawke blows out a breath.  Carver folds his arms and says, “Let me guess.  You got your panties bunched because he’s touring and you’re not.  You’re such a fucking jealous baby, Tal!”

 

Hawke stares at him.  There are only a few people on the street at this time of night, but they automatically drift around the brothers, standing still in the middle of the pavement like a rock in the middle of a slow-flowing stream.  “Alright, you want the gory details?  Yeah.  My panties are bunched.  Very fucking bunched.  I’m not jealous though… Maker.”   _ Or not just jealous _ , a little voice inside him says, but he continues, “I don’t know how to feel about it.  I mean, sure, it’s that but… he’s so fucking  _ leery _ of me.  Of my… you know,”  Hawke waggles his fingers in the air by his shoulders, hoping Carver will get what he means -  _ magic _ .  Carver nods quickly, and Hawke continues.  “It’s all to do with his past, and I get that, I do, but… he’s just… He’s going away, and he didn’t even tell me about it, I just saw the poster.  I didn’t hear it from him.”  Carver rolls his eyes and begins to speak, but Hawke rides right over the top of him with, “And I tried to talk to him about it, but we just ended up, y’know, which was my fault and… and…”  Hawke shakes his head, swallows.  “I dunno if he wants me around any more.  And I don’t know if I’m maybe just being too… lazy, too thick, to deal with his shit as well as my own.  I mean, you wanna talk baggage, Fen’s got plenty.  And it’s mages who gave it to him.”  

 

He rubs his hands together, feeling suddenly cold, and looks away, up at the decaying buildings on the other side of the road.  From the corner of his eye, he sees Carver shake his head.  “You tosser,” he growls, “Listen to this shit.  Just talk to him, you fucking prick.  Meet him somewhere really public - not a pub, for the love of the Maker - and tell him how you feel.  And if he ends it, won’t that be better than not knowing?  Do it soon.  Don’t do this to him; from what I hear, he’s got enough on his plate already.”

 

“He’s got enough on  _ his  _ plate?  What about me?”  Hawke asks, sounding petulant even to himself, “You make it sound like I’m the villain here…”

“You’re not the villain, you over-dramatic piece of shit,” Carver tells him, now sounding exhausted.  “You just… you have no idea.  Look.  When I signed with Fortress, Al advised me to have a lawyer.  I did, and it was just as well, because they tried to bind me into all sorts of shit that I never would have noticed without it.  And Fortress are the  _ good guys _ .  I can’t even begin to imagine what an Imperium contract means.  There would be nothing, no wiggle room, no way of getting out without… I don’t know.  Probably bloodshed.  And man, he’s going on tour for them.”  Carver shakes his head, looking worried, and then points his finger at Hawke’s chest.  “Don’t make him feel like an arsehole if you really do want him.  If you love him.”  Carver sighs, runs a hand over his hair and looks away from Hawke.  “I can’t believe I have to give  _ you,  _ of all people relationship advice.  I thought you’d be king of this shit by now.”

 

“That’s me,” Hawke says miserably, “King Shit.”  He shoves his hands in his pockets, and fishes out his cigarettes - he’s been trying to cut down, they’re just too expensive, but if anything makes him want a little comfort, it’s this.   _ Either that or you go score some holy water, _ he thinks, offering Carver the half-crushed little packet reluctantly.  Lyrium won’t solve this, and neither will smoking, or drinking - he knows Carver is right, he has to talk to Fenris, tell him properly how he feels and take the response on the chin, either way.  Deal with the consequences.  He shudders in the cool breeze, and knows deeply, unequivocally, that he’s running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music notes for this chapter:  
>  \- Fader are (once again) pulling a Jane's Addiction out of the bag: this one is called ['Ocean Size'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lVIev94s7Mo)  
> \- Hawke is thinking of The Doors song ['The End'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rPmvlwlNL9g) after he and Fenris have their miserable little talk.  
> \- Leandra is singing 'Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?' which has become kind of a standard; [The Shirelles version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnPlJxet_ac) is the one that plays in my head when I think of this scene.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BE WARNED: New tags for this chapter: canonical character death, grief/mourning.
> 
> Not that I am paranoid, you understand, I just don't want anyone to get a hideous surprise. Also, if you don't want to read this chapter, you won't miss anything terribly vital if you decide to skip it, I promise.

Karl laughs, and hugs Anders closer.  “You were amazing,” he says softly, and Anders chuckles. Hawke ducks his head, pretending that he is not listening.  

“It’s just a practice, love.  I better not peak too soon.  And, Maker, ugh, don’t hug me,” Anders says fondly, “I’ll get you all sweaty…”

“I know,” Karl murmurs, “I… kind of like it.  I…”

 

“So,” Hawke says loudly, and rises too quickly from his crouched position next to his guitar case.  His head swims, but when he says “I’ll see you guys later, okay?” his voice is even enough.  He has been struggling to suppress his emotions all through their practice.  Today is the day that Fenris leaves, and he cannot quite believe how the time has passed so quickly.  He bites his lip as Anders frowns and turns slightly, his grip on Karl’s waist loosening.  “Hey,” he asks softly, “Are you alright?”

 

“Peachy,” Hawke tells him, and smiles.  Anders looks at him carefully, and then narrows his eyes.  He considers Hawke for a moment, then turns to Karl, saying, “Hey, just…”

Karl nods, and lets go of Anders.  Anders steps back and sighs, then walks over to put his hand on Hawke’s shoulder and take him aside.  Hawke resists.  He suspects what this talk would be like;  _ and I kept it together so well _ ! he thinks, and sighs.

 

They’ve been practicing at the Bone Pit, and Seamus looks up at them from across the room to call, “That was so sick, you guys.  I’m going to be singing that weird mountain song all day.”

“Cool.  Thanks,” Anders says, smiling at him, and then pushes Hawke gently into one of the little dens built haphazardly along the wall.  It’s dim in here, the stained mattress barely covered with a tatty loose sheet and a blanket which has seen better days.  Anders takes a deep breath and exhales, then asks, “What’s up?”

 

“Nothing.  I’m fine,” Hawke says, and folds his arms over his chest.  Anders raises one eyebrow and sighs.  “I’m not a moron, and you’re not as good at hiding that stuff as you seem to think you are.  What’s going on? Is it Fenris?  What has he said to you?”

Hawke frowns, shakes his head.  “Nothing.  It’s just…”  he shakes his head again, then tells Anders, “It’s really nothing, okay?  Drop it. I’ve gotta go.”

 

He starts to walk away, but Anders stops him, one hand on his chest.  The touch is light, and Hawke takes a small breath and bites his lip.  Anders waits, just a beat, and then glances at Hawke.  When he speaks, his voice is deliberately low, “You don’t have to do anything, okay?  Man, everytime I see you guys together it’s the same story.  When he says jump, you ask  _ how high _ ?  I know we haven’t known each other that long, and I know I can’t stop you if you want to keep seeing him.  But just… Maker, have some self respect.”  Hawke takes a deep breath, frowning at Anders, who frowns right back and shakes his head.  “Stop being such a pushover for him, Tal.  I know he’s a big name and everything, but…”

“It’s not that, alright?  Andraste Wept, you make me out to be some fawning fanboy.”  Hawke laughs bitterly, and clears his throat, trying to shift the lump in it.  He hears a crash from outside the dim little alcove and then Isabela’s laughter.  Without thinking, he blurts, “He’s… he’s leaving today.  On tour.  I gotta go, I’m… I wanna say…”

“What?  Good riddance?”  Anders’ voice is suddenly loud in the small space.  “I don’t get what you see in him.”

“You don’t have to,” Hawke tells him abruptly.  “He’s my… we’re…”

 

Anders sighs angrily, and runs a hand through his hair.  “Isn’t that part of the problem?  What are you to him?  Do you even know?”  He takes a deep breath and holds up his hands, “I know, I know, it’s none of my business. But I just… I hate to see him do this to you, and I really… man, I gotta ask if he’s worth it.  Not just for you - it’s for the band too.  I’ve seen the difference in how you play when you know he’s there.  You’re far too self-conscious, and you fuck up way more often because of it.  I just…”

 

“You don’t like him.  I know.”  There had been several incidences of Fenris and Anders butting heads, mostly over Fenris’ critiques of Fader’s style. These had gotten so intense, and on one occasion so public, that both Aveline and Varric had pulled Hawke aside to ask he not tell Fenris when Fader were playing.  “C’mon,” Varric had said, “I know a little controversy makes for good press, trust me.  I just don’t think that having Lycanthrope bust your vocalists face is quite the publicity you’re going for.”  Hawke had nodded, but privately considered the incidents more a clash of egos.  But the memory of finding out that Fenris was touring through a poster was still far too fresh for him to consider doing the same thing, albeit on a much smaller scale, to Fenris himself.   _ And if that makes for controversy _ , he had thought at the time,  _ then so be it. _

 

Hawke sighs and hangs his head.  He feels sick, sad.   _ Why can’t you just get along _ ? he wants to ask, but holds his tongue.  Instead, he takes a deep breath and mutters, “Can I go now?”

Anders is silent for a long moment.  Then he asks, “Look, since we’re on uncomfortable subjects… How often do you use?  Lyrium, I mean?”

 

“Why?”  Hawke asks, immediately on the defensive.  Sure, he’s been using a little more than usual lately, but it’s no big deal.  He has it under control.  And maybe he’s had to do a few small jobs for Meeran, but that’s only to keep him sweet.  He takes a breath and frowns.  Anders looks away, shakes his head, then says, “Did you know they started synthesising lyrium to keep the mage populace under control?  The ironies of your use are vast, and you’re probably not even aware of them.  But surely, even if you don’t care about that, you know what that stuff does to you, right?”

 

“Sweet Maker,” Hawke murmurs, then says, louder, “Yes.  Okay?  I know.  Headaches, nausea, memory loss, loss of motor function in long term users; psychosis sometimes in non-mage users.  Highly addictive.  I know, Anders.  I’m not fucking dumb.”  Hawke huffs out a breath and shakes his head.  “Not that any of this,  _ any  _ of it, is your fucking business in the first place.  I still show up for gigs.  I still show up for practice.  And yeah, I could probably tighten my game, but so could Izzy.  And Merrill.  And I don’t see them in here getting the third fucking degree.  Also, I’m not the one making kissy face with my boyfriend during practice.  Can you just butt out?  I’m… I’m just…”

 

Anders’ face changes, and he looks chagrinned.  He steps toward Hawke, and puts both hands on his shoulders, looking carefully at his face.  Then, he takes Hawke by the chin, pulling his face up.  Hawke cuts his eyes away from Anders’ gaze and swallows.  “Hey,” Anders says, “Yeah.  ‘Course.  And you’re right.  I’m sorry.  I just… you’re a good guy, Tal.  I’m sorry about what I said.  It’s absolutely none of my business who you see, or what you do, even if…”  He takes a deep breath, holds it, then exhales.  “I’m sure that you and Fenris will be able to work something out.  And… I mean… absence… it isn’t great, but it isn’t insurmountable, either.”  He smiles gently, and glances quickly out of the alcove opening, back toward Karl, before returning his gaze to Hawke’s face.  

 

The warmth, the closeness of their bodies, it has a strange effect on Hawke; he feels his breath catch in his lungs, as a surge of adrenaline begins to course its way through his body.  Immediately, he shakes his head as if to clear it and Anders releases him.  He steps backward, half a pace.  They look rather awkwardly at each other in the half-light of the little space, then Hawke clears his throat.  “I gotta go,” he says huskily, then rubs the back of his neck.  Anders clenches his jaw and nods once, then laughs a little.  “Sure,” he tells Hawke, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

And with that, Anders turns on his heel and walks away.  Hawke hears his voice, abruptly telling Merrill not to touch that, Maker, can’t he leave anything unattended for five seconds?  Merrill squeaks, and Hawke hears her apologising.  He sighs.  He feels strangely inert, like his body is unwilling to move, and it seems there is a trace memory of Anders’ hand on his chest.  The feeling lingers, unbidden, and he rubs at the spot, trying to rid himself of the sensation.  He bows his head for a moment, looking at the concrete floor, and then strides forward, out the opening of little alcove, out of the warehouse and onto the street outside.

 

-|||-

 

He hadn’t managed to talk to Fenris.  In the intervening ten days since Carver had told him that that was what he should do, he had tried.  Oh Maker, he had tried.  But the words just wouldn’t come; perhaps because there were none, or none that Hawke could think of to describe the weight of these feelings in his chest, the way they continually flickered from one to the next; jealousy, betrayal, shame, sadness.  As he walks uphill from Lowtown to Hightown, smoking a cigarette as he walks up toward Fenris’ apartment, he berates himself for his stupidity.  His words to Anders,  _ I’m not fucking dumb _ , resonate within him, and he laughs humourlessly.   _ You are though _ , he chastises himself,  _ Very fucking dumb.  You won’t even talk to him for fear that you’ll lose him forever.  And Anders is right about using so much too.  You know that’s stupid.  Who will catch you if you go down that rabbit hole?  Who would care?   _ Hawke swallows and presses the buzzer for Fenris’ apartment, ignoring how his hands shake.

 

Instantly, the door unlatches.  Without further ado, Hawke pulls open the door and enters the building, crossing the lobby to hammer impatiently on the button for the lift, then giving up and taking the stairs two at a time.  As he climbs, he feels his heart begin to pound mercilessly, feels the way his stomach drops and twists.   _ Maker _ , he thinks,  _ I know you’ve got no cause to listen, not to me, but I could really use a break here.  Just a little courage, alright?  That’s all I need.  Courage enough to be true; courage enough to accept.  Just… _ but he cannot bring himself to continue his prayer.  Fear coils within him, mounting and mounting until finally he stands outside Fenris’ door.  He raises his hand to knock, when suddenly, the door swings open.

 

And there he stands.  “Hawke,” Fenris says quietly, “Why did you come?”

“l…” Hawke begins, then clears his throat.  He wishes now he had bought something, anything, to give, as a token, as an offering; an excuse.  He bows his head, lost for words, and then Fenris takes a breath, exhales loudly.  “I do not know why you persist with this.  I still believe it would be easier for you, for us both, if you would let me go.  But…”  Hawke glances up, sees Fenris too is gazing at the ground.  “But I am glad you did.  It is good to see you.”

 

Hawke only nods mutely.  They stand in the doorway for almost a minute, in silence, as Hawke desperately searches for something to say.  “Fen,” he says finally, “I know there’s nothing I can say, that you need to do this.  I know that.  But just…”  he clenches his jaw, feels the tears close, “Be careful.  I wish I could be there to help, even in some small way.  And… and…”

 

Fenris sighs again, a harsh gust of breath.  “I will.  I will be careful.  Now, I need you to promise me something before I go.”

Hawke looks up, into Fenris’ clear green eyes and nods.  “Yeah.  What is it?”

Silence for a moment, then Fenris says, very quietly, “Move on.”  Quickly, he holds out his hand, stilling Hawke’s noise of protest, arresting it in his throat with the gesture.  He continues, “You made your feelings very clear about this course of action when we last managed to speak about this.  But… you need to move on with your life.  It may happen that I will record a new album further south - I have been approached by Redoubt, and there may be some film work.”  He smiles a little, and then his face clouds over again.  “Work hard.  Do not fall prey to self pity in this; you owe it to yourself, to Fader.”  He pauses, then asks, “Will you promise me that?”

 

Hawke shakes his head and wipes at his eyes quickly.  “No,” he laughs, “No.  I can’t.  Not for a while.  I’ll work hard, you know I will, but Maker, Fen, I can’t promise to move on.  You… you’ll leave a pretty big hole, you know.”  He bites his lip, then his eyes widen as he realises, there is something he can give Fenris after all.  Quickly, he fumbles at the strip of red cloth around his waist - it’s an old scarf of Leandra’s, and he’d been using it to hold up his pants, an affectation of sorts with the long fringed ends hanging down his thigh.  Clumsy fingers fumble at the knot, and he curses quietly, feeling the weight of Fenris’ gaze.  Finally he manages to undo it, and thrusts it toward Fenris.  “Here,” he says, feeling stupid, “Here.  Take this.”

 

Slowly, Fenris takes the scarf.  His eyebrows rise slightly, and Hawke sees his jaw clench.  “It’s stupid,” Hawke babbles, “But I wanted to give you something.  I mean, it can be cold down in Fereldan.  And I hear Nevarra, they’ve got all that sand right, so, I don’t know, that could be helpful.  I’m very practical with the gifts, you know, and I…”

Fenris silences him with a look.  Hawke jiggles nervously, then rubs the back of his neck as Fenris pulls the long strip of cloth through his fist.  “It’s lovely,” Fenris tells him.  “Thank you.  But…”

 

“I know.  I know!  You’ve got to get going.”  Hawke bites his lip again, takes a breath, releases it, and grins.  “Don’t, uh, don’t be a stranger, Fen.  You know where I’ll be.  And, y’know, you can always call.  Please call.  I…”  

“Hawke.  Hawke,”  Fenris looks at him, shakes his head, and smiles, softly.  “Tal.  I know.  I will when I can.” He looks backward, into the apartment and looks suddenly stricken.  “Hawke, I’m so sorry, but I really have to…”

 

“I know.”  But he doesn’t, it seems all of a sudden he doesn’t know anything, he’s almost operating from outside himself as he takes a step back, to hover on the precipice of the moment.  Fenris looks terrified suddenly, clutching the scarf in both hands, and then he seems to steel himself.  “Hawke,” he begins, “Remember what I asked.  And remember…”  he pauses, then says, softly, “I am yours.”  He drops his gaze, steps backward and quietly closes the door.

 

Hawke stands in the corridor, blinking, hardly able to breathe.  He stands there for a long time, and then covers his mouth with one hand, the other outstretched, doubled in a film of tears.  He puts his hand against Fenris’ closed door, leaves it there for a moment as if he were able to touch Fenris himself, and then snatches his hand away as if burnt.  His vision obscured, breathing laboured, he stumbles back two steps, and then blunders down the corridor.

 

-|||-

 

“Da’len, wake up.”

 

Hawke smiles and moves his head.  It’s heavy, but his stubble feels good against his arm.  Eight days, maybe ten, who’s counting? He certainly isn’t.  It doesn’t matter anyway.  He’s gone, gone, and nothing Hawke drinks, nothing he takes, no fights he gets into or stupidity he commits will dull the edge of these bright, sharp memories.  The woman’s voice, the one who’s spoken, says again, “Da’len?  C’mon, Tal.  You can’t sleep here.”

 

“I’m nobody's darlin’ anymore,” he tells the mystery woman, who makes a sad moaning sound and then t’sks.  There is a pressure under his arms, and a man’s voice says, “Let me.”

“It’s alright, Anders, I’ve got… oof… He’s a heavy fucker, isn’t he?”  The woman’s voice laughs, and it seems it is echoed.  Hawke laughs as well and looks up to see a kind face, pretty green eyes staring at him worriedly.  “Get out of it, Merrill,” the mans voice says, and then, “Karl, can you get his other side?”

 

Hawke is hauled upright, and sags, his head lolling.  He looks to the left, sees a man there with wire rimmed spectacles, crows feet resting in the corners of his eyes.  He glances at Hawke and says softly, “It’s alright.  We’ll get you home.”

“Don’t wanna,” Hawke tells him, though the words are hard to say, and it’s difficult to keep his head upright.  “Mum’s got someone new.  Even bloody old Gamlen’s probably got someone.  Everyone’s got someone to love ‘em but me.”

He hears a laugh on the other side of his body, and tries to get his head to go in that direction.  It seems as if they are moving, and then he is looking at his feet, wondering at their locomotion.  He blinks, and asks, “Feet?  Foot.  Did you know they could do that?”

 

“Maker, you’re a mess,” the man’s voice sighs, and then says, “Don’t worry, Merrill.  We’ve got him.  I’ll take him to my place, he can sleep it off there.  Can’t leave him out here, much as he deserves it.”  The man’s voice chuckles, and he hears the woman, Merrill, say, “Are you sure?  He could stay at mine, I mean, the Alienage isn’t…”

“Darktown’s closer,” the man’s voice says, then, “See you Tuesday, alright?  Remember to call Varric when you get in.”

 

“Okay,” Merrill says dubiously, and then asks, “But Anders, don’t you think..?”

“See you Tuesday,” the man, Anders, repeats and Hawke wrinkles his nose.  

“You’re bossy,” he says loudly, and then he’s moving his head again, looking at the man who’s been speaking, and he blinks.  “Bossy, but really, really pretty.”

“Maker, I’ve reached the pinnacle of success,” Anders rolls his eyes, “Hit on by a drunk.  It’s like the Pearl all over again.”

 

The man on Hawke’s other side chuckles, a warm sound.  “He’s got your number though, sweetheart.  You are quite bossy.”

“I’ve never heard you complain before,” Anders says dryly, and Karl laughs a little.  He has a nice laugh, Hawke decides, and then Karl says, “Thank you.  That’s sweet.”

 

“What?” Hawke asks, and then realises he’s said his thoughts out loud.  They are heading into the shadows, down a flight of stairs, the cobblestones loose and rickety.  “Watch your step here,” Anders warns, and Hawke frowns, trying to concentrate on where he’s putting his feet.  He stumbles, and Anders grunts, before Karl tells him softly, “It’s okay.  Go slow.”

 

“Curfew,” Anders mutters, and Hawke rolls the word around in his mind. 

“Wassat?” he asks, and Anders frowns, then shushes him. 

“Nearly there.  I’ll tell you in the morning, if you’re still in the dark about it.”  The silence after this pronouncement is grim, and Hawke tries to pull his body along a little faster.  Eventually, they reach a heavy door, it almost looks fortified, and Anders says, “Wait a sec, you.  Karl, love, you better get going.  Thanks for your help…”

 

“It’s alright.  I’ll help you get your _ enfant terrible _ sorted out.  They won’t miss me for a little while longer.”  Karl smiles and shrugs as Anders frowns at him.  “Really, sweetheart.  It’ll be fine.”

Anders’ frown deepens for a moment, and then he shakes his head and turns, beginning to unlock the door.  He struggles with it for a moment, the keys scraping in the lock, then he is able to push it open.  “Go on then, get in.”

 

Karl and Hawke enter the room beyond.  It is large, cavernous, and very, very dim.  Stubs of candles sit on a shabby desk; a small gas stove and several cardboard boxes duct taped together to resemble shelves sit along the opposite wall.  A threadbare sofa sits in the middle of the space, surrounded with books and records - a battered stereo is adjacent to it.  Hawke hears a hissing noise, and Anders lights a candle next to the door, clenching his fist to disburse the flame.  “Right,” Anders says as he closes the door, moving across the room to light the candles on the desk, “Park your ass on the sofa.  I’ll get you some blankets and stuff.”  A pause, and then, as Karl pulls his arm from under Hawke’s, allowing him to drop onto the sofa, Anders says, “I really can do this bit by myself, love.  You need to get going.  If they find you out at this hour, there’s…”

 

“Do you think I’m not aware?  Darling, it’s fine.  They know me - they know I have a pass for tonight.  It’s…”

“Your pass expired an hour ago.  Please, Karl, I can’t…”

Karl sighs.  “And here I was thinking that my rebellious boyfriend might rather enjoy a little illicit after hours romp.  I suppose I was wrong.”

“You weren’t wrong,” Anders says quickly, and puts his hands on his hips.  Karl laughs, mimicking the gesture, then Anders laughs ruefully and drops his hands.

 

“You weren’t wrong,” Anders repeats, “But not at any price.  Karl, if you don’t go now, you’ll have to stay the night, and as much as I’d love that, I don’t want you to have to deal with the consequences tomorrow.  Please.”

Karl huffs out a breath and shakes his head, approaching Anders.  “Ah, my sweetheart.  Such courage.  Such sacrifice.”  He wraps his hands around Anders’ hips and smiles sweetly up into his face.  “I’ll let you know when I can get out next.  Love you, my little revolutionary.”

“Love you too, old man.  Kick a Templar for me, would you?”  Anders chuckles, and nuzzles his nose against Karl’s cheek.  Hawke watches for a moment, then looks at his feet, feeling queasy and embarrassed.  He shifts on the sofa, then doubles over, trying to unlace his boots.  He hears Anders and Karl walk to the door, a little more low murmuring, and then the door opens.  “Be careful,” Anders says quietly, and Karl laughs.  

“Good night, sweetheart.  Don’t think too hard about what might have been.”

“Cheeky,” Anders tells him, and then there is the noise of Karl’s footfalls in the passage outside.  Anders closes the heavy door after him.  Hawke hears the scrape of deadbolts and chain, and then Anders moving once more about the room.

 

There is the noise of a cupboard opening, and Hawke pulls off his first boot.  Anders’ sneakers squeak on the concrete floor, and then something soft lands next to Hawke.  “There,” Anders tells him, and sighs.  Hawke looks up briefly, then back down, struggling with his laces.  He takes a deep breath, tries to compose himself and then says, “Is Karl really going to get in trouble?”

 

“I don’t know,” Anders says softly, then he crouches down next to Hawke, pushing his hands away and deftly beginning to unlace the boots.  The leather creaks a little as Hawke shifts back, swallows.  Part of his mind is very invested in the feel of Anders so close, and kneeling before him.   _ Stop it _ , he tells himself, then looks around, desperately trying to find something to focus on.  “Nice place,” he says, and Anders laughs.

 

“It’s a shit hole.  Lift your foot,” he says, and Hawke complies.  “There’s no electric, but there are rats.  Not many.  There are feral cats live down here too, poor bastards.  They keep the rats under control.  Yeah, it’s pretty shit, but it’s not the shittest place I’ve lived in.”  He sets Hawke’s boot next to the other one and looks up.  “You’ll be alright.  There’s two blankets there, that should be enough.  I hope it is, because it’s all I’ve got.  Uh…” he pauses, then points to a closed door, “Bathroom’s through there.  It’s… it’s not much.  There’s no hot water, so, um…”

 

“S’fine,” Hawke says, and yawns, rubbing a hand over his hair.  “Hey, thanks, man.  You didn’t have to do…”

“You’re damn right I didn’t.  But…”  Anders sighs, and raises an eyebrow, before looking at Hawke and grinning in a hangdog way, “You’re a friend.  Though you did cost me a night with Karl.”

“Have to find a way to pay you back then,” Hawke says without thinking, and immediately realises his insinuation.  “Uh, I didn’t mean…”

Anders chuckles and waves his hand, then pushes himself to his feet.  “I know.  Sleep.”  He looks down at Hawke for a moment, then pushes his hair off his forehead and then tucks his arms about his chest as if he is cold.  Briefly, he glances at the door, and shifts, then turns back to Hawke again.  “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

 

-|||-

 

“Fuckin’ lightweight,” Isabela laughs, and slaps his back.  Hawke has his sunglasses on, even deep within the bowels of the Hanged Man, the only pub open at eleven o’clock in the morning on a Sunday.  He groans, putting his head in his hands and hears the others laugh.  “And all over a boy.  Holy Toenails, you’re such a romantic bastard.  I never would have guessed.”  Isabela laughs as Hawke looks up, and holds her pint glass out to toast him.  He shakes his head at her and says, “Not just any boy.  You’ve seen Fenris.”

 

He feels slightly sick at himself for that, making light of what they had in that way.  He glances down at the scarred table as Isabela shrugs, and says, “Sovereign for several, sweets.  Plenty more fish in the sea.”

“Aw, poor you though,” Merrill chips in, blinking in the low light, “It must be hard.  Him being so far away, and with all the awful things he told you about his old manager, and how he’s had to go back to them, and you never really tellin’ him properly that you love… Uh…”  she pauses, looking at Hawke in concern.  “Shit.  I’m sorry!  I didn’t make it better, really, did I?  Oh dear.  Uh…”

 

Hawke shakes his head, sees Anders roll his eyes.  “No.  But it’s the truth.  I dunno, Merry.  I dunno what to do about it.  He told me to move on, but I just… I don’t know.”  He sighs.  “I’m sorry,” he tells the table at large, and makes an effort to look at them all - Aveline smiles slightly and shrugs; Varric is looking at him intently, a sympathetic smile on his face.  Anders stares into his pint glass, deliberately not making eye contact.  Merrill’s eyes are large and round, shining wetly and Isabela is looking at him with one eyebrow raised and a wry smile.  “I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I’ve been a real arse about this.  I’ll… I’ll do better.”

 

“C’mon, Tal.  Everyone’s entitled to wallow for a bit.”  Varric shakes out the newspaper he’s nicked off an empty table, and opens it, seemingly at random.  “It’s not like you’ve done anything totally irrepairable, I mean…”  The word trails off, and Varric frowns, staring at the page in front of him.  “That’s it, we’ve lost him to the written word again,” Isabela laughs, but there is something on Varric’s face that Hawke doesn’t like at all.  “Var?” he asks, and Varric blinks, and then looks sharply at Anders.

 

“Blondie?” he asks, “What’s your boyfriend’s name again?”

“Karl.  Karl Thekla,” Anders says slowly, then, “Why?”

Varric’s mouth sets in a grim line, and he looks once more at the page in front of him.  “Shit,” he mutters, “Oh, shit.  No.”  Hawke sees his throat work, and then silently, Varric folds back the pages of the newspaper, and hands it to Anders.  Anders frowns, taking the paper, and Hawke looks at Varric.  He is studying Anders closely, his face ashen, and then says, “Blondie, Maker’s Balls, I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry… this sucks, this really…”

 

Aveline stares at him and asks, “What is it, Varric?” but Anders holds up his hand for quiet.  He looks at the paper for what seems like a very long time, and Hawke watches as hectic colour rises to his cheeks.  Anders shakes his head, quickly, and then opens his mouth and begins to read aloud, in a voice so unlike his own that it almost sounds to Hawke like a different person entirely.  

 

“Circle strike foiled, one death.  A spokesperson for the Templar Order revealed that a large-scale strike by magic-enabled of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi had been put down overnight.   The spokesperson refused to reveal the potential numbers of magic-enabled who were strike collaborators, but did state that “the plot was a substantial one, involving many organisers.  It is likely that senior enchanters were also involved.”  However, during the subsequent crackdown, an alleged high level organiser for the strikers, one Karl Thekla, resisted arrest and containment and was… was…”  Anders swallows, sniffs, and Hawke sees that his hands have crushed the edges of the newspaper. 

“Anders,” Aveline says, but Anders shakes his head and then resumes reading, still in the same monotone. 

“...Was killed.  Thekla, a known associate of several unregistered mages, though a long time resident of the local Circle, died of wounds sustained as part of his arrest.  An investigation into the strike and its organization is pending, though the Templar spokesperson refused to be drawn on how long it is likely…”  

 

Hawke is breathing hard, watching Anders’ face.  Suddenly, Anders slams the paper down on the table, and everyone jumps.  Hawke sees he is panting, mouth open, and he opens his mouth to speak, to say anything.  Isabela looks around, and mutters, “Fucksakes, ‘Ders, people are looking.  Calm down.”  Anders shakes his head quickly, runs both hands through his hair and laughs, bitter, hysteric.  

“Calm down,” he repeats, and laughs again.  “Calm down.”  He nods, and smiles, and it is terrible, terrible to see, a rictus as his eyes swim with tears.  He keeps nodding as he says, “Excellent idea.  Calm down.”  Slowly, the nodding turns to shaking of his head, and he growls, “He was killed because of me.  Because he didn’t have a pass, because they knew he knew me.  Maker, I’ll never be free of that place, that  _ fucking _ place.  Oh, Karl.  Karl.”  He gasps once, and puts his hand to his mouth, then quickly, violently, shoves the paper away.  Immediately, Hawke grabs it, throws it to the ground.  

 

“Hey, hey,” he says, casting about for anything, anything to say, “You know this could just be… a mistake, it could be a bad story, or some other Karl, I don’t know…”

“It’s not,” Anders says, and the finality in his voice is brutal.  “It’s not.  You don’t know them like I do, they take any excuse to get rid of you.  I… I can’t, I’ve got to go.  I’ve got to go,” he repeats, and shoves his chair back with such force that it tips and falls to the wooden floor with a crash.  

  
“Anders, wait,” Hawke says, but Anders is gone, striding toward the door, his jacket forgotten in his haste.  Quickly, Hawke scoops it up, and runs after Anders, as Aveline and Merrill both yell, “Be careful!” at their backs.  Careful of what exactly, Hawke couldn’t say.


	12. Chapter 12

“Anders!  Anders, fuck me sideways, slow down!”  

But Anders just keeps striding away.  Hawke walks as fast as he dares down the street, almost colliding with a man coming out of a chemists, ignoring the indignant “Hey!” at his back.  He only has eyes for Anders, stalking away from him, his head bowed, fists clenched.  He’s heading toward Hightown.  “Anders!” Hawke yells again, and makes a final rush, reaching out with his free hand, grabbing a fistful of Anders’ shirt as he walks out onto the road.  A horn blares, a dark blue station wagon swerves slightly out of their path, and as Hawke pulls Anders back toward the sidewalk, a woman yells at them from the passenger window.  “Sorry!” Hawke yells back, and then looks at Anders.

 

His face is pale, drawn, and streaked with tears.  But he glares at Hawke and says, very low, “Let me go, Tal.  Let me go, you have to let me go.”

Hawke shakes his head.  “Not alone.  I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Anders says immediately, “There’s no point you putting yourself at risk.”

“Why?”  Hawke asks, and narrows his eyes, worried, “Where are you going?”

“To the Circle.  I’m going to find the bastards in charge, and I’m going to make them hear me.  They can’t ignore me forever, if I take up space long enough they’ll…”

 

“...Throw you in a cell and charge you with something.  Come  _ on _ , Anders!”  Hawke grasps Anders’ shoulder, feels the bones prominent under his skin.  “You can’t be serious.  We can go to the guard.  I don’t know, lay a complaint or something.  They’re not bound by Circle rules, they’ll have to investigate if we lay a complaint.  Or what about… I mean, there’s gotta be some kind of… um, an oversight office, some official Chantry body that oversees the Templars, right?  We could complain to them.  Or, or… um… Do you know if Karl had any family?  Maybe we could get in touch with them…”  But Anders is shaking his head, and Hawke trails off.  He looks hopelessly at Anders, who sighs and rubs both hands over his eyes as Hawke drops his hand.  

 

“You’re right.  What am I going to do?  Go up there and yell at them?”  Anders asks, still with his face in his hands.  “I just… I can’t believe it.  I… I mean, if what the report said is true, then, he was killed because of me.  He must have been.  I was the one that kept him out after curfew had ended, they knew he was coming to meet me - I’m sure they did.”  Anders shakes his head and lowers his hands.  He stares at Hawke for a moment, and then frowns and looks at the pavement, thinking, silent.  Eventually, he looks up again and says, “But all this bullshit about Karl being an agitator… I just… I can’t believe it.  He always said that you changed systems from within them, that’s why he stayed, but… Maker, this.  It burns.”  Anders clenches his jaw and looks away from Hawke, then shakes his head again.  “They knew where I was.  They always do.  Why the fuck didn’t they come for me themselves?  It’s just… so  _ unfair _ .  So fucked.”  He raises his hand to his mouth and chews his thumbnail, and Hawke sees him swallow.

 

“There are a lot of things unfair and fucked about this,” Hawke tells him, and then reaches out, handing Anders his jacket.  Anders takes it wordlessly, shrugs into it as Hawke says, “Let’s go have a fish around, see what we can find out.  Will that… Will it make you feel better, or worse, to do that?”

Anders shakes his head, one more time, and smiles grimly.  “If it makes me feel anything, it’ll be better than this.  Anything at all would be better than the way I feel right now.”

And to this, Hawke can only nod, and he stands with Anders, waiting for the traffic to thin enough for them to cross.

 

-|||-

 

The mood is grim, back in the Hanged Man.  They hadn’t managed to find out much at all from the Administration Office at the Circle, and even less from the Guard.  It seemed that no one was interested in taking a statement from them, or in supplying them with the wherewithal to make an official complaint.  At every turn, their enquiries about Karl, the care he’d received as he’d died, the circumstances of his death, had met with blank expressions, brick walls.  There were no records of a Thekla anywhere in the Circle infirmary records, the clerk had assured them, and the secure cells records were not open to scrutiny from the public.  “If you could just check, just once,” Hawke had said, glancing at Anders, who seemed less and less capable of speech as they’d been shunted from one point of enquiry to another, and the clerk had shaken his head.  “I’m sorry,” he had told them insincerely, and had turned and walked away.  

 

After that, neither of them had had the energy to continue.  So they had come back to the Hanged Man; it seemed odd, at least to Hawke, how the sun could continue to shine, people could continue living their normal lives, in the face of Anders’ grief.  Half way along the pedestrian mall out of Hightown, Hawke could not stand it any longer, and had put his arm around Anders’ shoulders.  He wanted, desperately to say something - he still cannot think of anything.  Isabela was standing at the bar when they had returned; she had gestured to the bartender, and got a round in, which both Anders and Hawke had accepted in silence.  So they sit as the bar fills up, a silent circle - all together, but with very little to say to each other.  

 

Hawke is staring into his beer morosely when he hears Merrill clear her throat.  “Um,” she begins, and then hesitantly asks, “Um… Anders?”

Hawke looks across the table to Anders, who sits, rigid, his beer untouched before him.  He looks up from the table at Merrill, just looks at her, that is all.  No smile, no frown.  Just nothing.  Hawke glances at Merrill, who is smiling nervously.  “Um,” she repeats, “Have you heard of the Freedom’s Call legal fund?”

 

Anders frowns slightly, then nods.  “Yes,” he says, and then sighs.  Merrill’s smile widens, becomes positively terrified, and she nods.  “Oh good!  Um, because, um… I know this probably isn’t the time, but uh… maybe you want to think about something that’s maybe good that could come out of this, I mean, it’s awful and I don’t mean to, you know, lessen your loss, really I don’t.  But Freedom’s Call, they do such good work, and, and maybe, I thought, maybe if you wanted, if you thought it would be a good thing to do, we could organise a benefit?  In Karl’s memory?”

 

Anders stares at her blankly, and then Varric asks,  “Daisy?  Could we back the truck up a little?  What’s Freedom’s Call?”

Merrill beams at him.  “It’s a legal fund, it’s for mages that get in trouble.  I had dealings with them when Feynriel was, well, you know, and it really, really helped.  A lot of elves in the city have to use them, they really have no choice if they want defense at all.  You don’t have to be an elf, you just have to be a mage, and they don’t care if you’re registered or not.  They’re really nice, but they’re almost always working for free - “

“ - pro bono -” Aveline interrupts.

“Yes, yes, that,” Merrill says, then continues, “And I don’t know, I didn’t know Karl obviously, but I think it would be a really good thing to do, and a bit of a, you know, a fuck you?  Sort of?  To the… you know.  The people that did it.  Maleficar and New Blood did that  _ Fuck the Curfew _ gig a while back, and that was pretty good.  But I think we could do better…”

 

“You know,” Varric says, and points his finger around the table, “This could work.  Corff owes me - I bet he’d let us do it here.  And it’s not so bad to draw a line in the sand,” his eyes linger on Hawke for a moment, “It’s kind of a hot issue at the moment, and if we play our cards right...”

Hawke looks at Anders, trying to gauge his reaction, while Varric continues to talk.   _ Too soon _ , he thinks, looking at the complete lack of engagement on Anders’ face.  He waves his hand, and says loudly, “Hey.  Guys?  Let’s just… give Anders a little space, okay?  It’s a good idea, Merry, but…”

 

Merrill nods, and looks back down at her half-pint.  “Okay,” she says resignedly, “I only thought…”

“Yeah,” Hawke smiles at her kindly, trying to let her know that there will be a better time, and then Anders speaks.  His voice is very quiet, scarcely audible above the noise of the crowded pub, but he tells them, “He… he would have liked that.  I think.”

 

Anders looks up, and smiles slightly - first at Merrill, then at Hawke.  His throat works as he swallows, and then he looks back down into his glass.  “Karl… he loved people so much.  There wasn’t anyone that didn’t like him - he was thoughtful, and generous with his time.  He is… he was… a great teacher.  He knew a lot about almost everything, every branch of magic, not just the stuff that he gravitated toward.  And… I mean, he used to tell me all the time....” Anders swallows again, and he puts his hand over his eyes, the other clutched around his chest, his shoulders hunched.  “He used to tell me that… that the Templars weren’t the problem, that it was the Chantry, that they’d taught people to hate us, to fear us.  He… he used to laugh, remind me that in healing, if you don’t treat the root cause of an illness, then it’s going to recur, pop up again somewhere else.  He used to say the Templars were the symptom, not the illness itself.”  Anders stops talking to sigh, and Hawke sees him bite his lip, and then he wipes his eyes.  “Merrill - your idea is a good one.  I want to do something, something to show those fucks up there,” he gestures in the direction of the Viscount’s Keep, “that we won’t be cowed into being the subservient little cogs they want us to be.  That we’re  _ people _ , that we deserve to be treated like people.”  He clenches his jaw and looks at Varric, and Aveline with a furious intensity.  “If I give you some contact details for Gwen, do you think you could approach Highever Orphan to play?  And maybe Velanna too?”

 

Isabela grins.  “And you know, I’ve got an old friend who’s on tour with his band.  A little outfit called Crow Blade; maybe Zev would be into it.  I can get you details too, if these guys are interested.”

 

Aveline’s eyes are wide, and she nods slowly, thoughtfully.  “I can do that.  But...Are you sure that you want to go ahead?  It’ll be a hell of a statement.”

Silence for a moment; then Hawke grins.  “Fuck yeah.  If Anders is in, I’m in.”

“Me too!” chirps Merrill, and Isabela shrugs and smiles. 

“May as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.  I’m with these idiots.”  She picks up her glass and raises it, then looks puzzled.  “What are we gonna call this thing?”

Anders picks up his glass and holds it out toward hers.  “Remember Karl Thekla.”  His jaw clenches, and he blinks rapidly, but Hawke sees the hand holding the glass is steady.  He picks up his own glass, as do Varric, Aveline and Merrill.  “Remember Karl Thekla,” they say solemnly, and Anders swallows, then nods.

 

-|||-

 

“Avi, you’re a genius,” Hawke says, and sniffs.  He’s been nursing a cold for the last two weeks - at least, that’s what he’s been telling his mother.  But really, it’s a side effect of all the holy water he’s been doing.  Blue sniffles.  He wipes a hand under his nose, and Aveline looks disgusted.  “Do you need a tissue?” she asks, sounding revolted, and Hawke shakes his head.  They are sitting in her neat little basement flat, the cables all neatly wound and stacked around the walls.  She smiles a little as she leans forward, flips open the cover of the tape deck.  “The quality’s a bit shit,” she says ruefully, though there is a thread of pride in her voice.  “It’s not exactly what I’d like to be sending out…”

“Pffft,” Hawke says, “They’re live!  Raw form and all that.  And, you know, Avi,” he smiles at her and winks, “I’ve heard you say before that Fader are a band you have to experience live before you know you’ve experienced them at all.  Us, I mean.”

 

Aveline blushes and rolls her eyes.  “You heard that, huh?”  She pauses, frowns at Hawke, “Do you know who it was I was telling that to?”

He shakes his head.  “You were on the phone with your feet on Varric’s desk, and I was trying not to die laughing from the look he was giving you.  Did you know you put your socks on his manuscript?”

Aveline frowns and blushes harder.  “No.  But Hawke, this is important.  I was talking to Elthina, one of the senior A&R reps for White Chant.  They’re interested in sitting down with us, talking contracts.  This could be big.  This could be a record deal.”

Hawke takes a breath, then raises his eyebrows.  “Really?  Shit.  That’s…”  he wrinkles his nose, shakes his head.  “I mean, now that we’re doing all of this, it… seems kind of unnecessary.  A record deal, I mean.  Why can’t we just do it ourselves?”

 

Aveline arches an eyebrow at him.  “Do you have any idea how much that shit costs?  Like, distribution alone - you have to go into every outlet which could potentially stock your record and basically guarantee that you’ll buy it back off them if it doesn’t sell.  The business model is…”

“Fucked, I know.  But if we had a product that we could limit the availability of, make it hard to obtain… and if we made it so good…”

“Maker, Hawke, you’d have to make it brilliant.  And this,” she waves the tape in his face, “Is a long way from being brilliant.  The quality is shitty, and there just isn’t enough buzz around you lot yet.  This is proof that you can hold it together for long enough to do a full set - there’s no guarantee that you’d be able to harness the same energy in the studio.  And a label can take that bet, can put stipulations around you, can let you work with people who know their way around a studio far better than I do…”

“Yeah, and can take all our creativity and leash it.  Come on, Avi.  You know that sounds about as appealing to me as a bootful of cat sick.”  He grins at her, and she rolls her eyes..  “Come on,” Hawke repeats, “We can do better for ourselves than White Chant could ever do.  We know each other.  They don’t know us - some exec gets a great idea, they sign you and you languish.  Come on.  That’s what happened to Chantry Fuck, remember?  They completely sold out when they went to El Canto, and they made one record and they didn’t even put it on the charts!  And they had no control over any of that.  It was utter rubbish.”

 

Aveline nods, and looks down at the tape in her hands.  “Yeah.  I know.  It’s just… it’d be a lot of money, Hawke.  Potentially.  And I’ve heard rumours about this Elthina.  Once she’s got you in her sights, she wants you bad.  And she’s got Fader in her sights now.  So…”

“So?  We release this little bomb you’re holding so carefully.  We’ll buy some studio time…”

“With what, Hawke?  We have no money.”

“ _ You _ might not,” Hawke says, and sniffs again.  “I bet I can get my hands on some.  Anyway, that’s beside the point.  We’ll do the thing, we’ll remaster it, and we’ll sell it.  It’ll be great, just you wait and see.  Now,” he says, and grins at her, “What’s the news on the gig?”

 

“Good, so far.  Orphan have yet to confirm, but Velanna said she’d be there, and as far as I can get out of Isabela, her friend’s band… what was their name..?”

“Crow Blade,” Hawke reminds her, “and his name’s Zevran.  I remember them from back in the day, they used to tour with Orphan and Killer of Birds a bit…”

“Huh,” Aveline says and looks at him strangely, “I like K-o-B, but I’ve never heard of Crow Blade.”

“The things you’ve never heard of could fill a bloody bathtub,” Hawke waves his hand impatiently, “So?  Are they confirmed or what?”

 

“Yes,” Aveline tells him irritatedly, “They’re confirmed, as far as I can tell.  But it’s Orphan we really need to hear from.  They’re such a big act, it would really cement the asking price.”

Hawke looks at her seriously, waiting, and then huffs exasperatedly when she refuses to take the hint.  “Which is?”

“Fifteen sovereigns.”

“ _ Fifteen _ ?!”  Hawke is aghast - the most money Fader had ever asked their fans to shell out so far had been five.  “What, are they getting to tittyfuck Andraste into the bargain?”

“It’s for charity, Hawke.  That’s what Anders said…”

“Bloody hell though!  Fifteen sovs!  That’s… that’s…”  He frowns at her, then sighs.  “Okay.  Well, if it’s what Anders wants, then I suppose that’s okay.  But… shit.  That’s expensive.”

“That’s why we need Orphan.  Orphan, Velanna, and Crow Blade will make it an amazing gig for fifteen sovereigns.  And we need them to do it for free.  Which is asking a lot, really.”  Aveline laughs and shakes her head.  “But they’re in the middle of auditioning new drummers, from what I hear, and their agent said they need time for that.  So I don’t know.  Maybe we won’t be able to get them.  Oh!  Did you hear about RDVD?”

 

“What?  It’s finally been scientifically proven that they’re a bunch of assholes?”  Hawke asks sarcastically, and Aveline sighs.  “No.  They’re changing their base of operations to Kirkwall.  The whole band are moving here over the…”

“Big fucking deal.  They’ll be assholes in my vicinity.  No.  Uh, wait, that is a big deal actually.  I don’t like local assholes.  I prefer them removed from my presence.  Did you read that creepy interview with that Rutherford guy?  Maker…”

“In Philliam?  Yeah.  I read it.  He’s got problems though, Tal…”

“He  _ is _ a problem.”  Hawke sighs and frowns, then says, “What were you talking about?”

 

Aveline looks at him and then blinks.  “Oh.   Oh yeah, Orphan.  Um… well, we’ll just have to keep going.  Merrill says she’s spoken to the people at Freedom’s Call, and they’re happy for us to go ahead.  Can’t imagine why they bloody wouldn’t be, but still.  Varric’s been putting the word out, Isabela tells me she’s got a poster guy who can do us something on the cheap, and… and I thought I’d get you to talk to Anders.”

“Me?  What about?”

“He doesn’t want to play.  And believe me, I can understand that.  Varric’s already tried twice, but nothing.  He won’t budge.  But… Fader needs to, you need to play.  As much as I understand that this gig is part of his… process or whatever, you need to understand how much of an opportunity this is.  If Highever Orphan perform, there will be a lot of attention paid to this gig.  And if Fader isn’t there…”

 

Aveline goes quiet, and eventually, Hawke nods.  “It’s pretty shit, Aveline.  Can’t I talk to a poster guy instead?  I love to hear them talking all aesthetic.”

“You don’t even know what that word means,”  Aveline sighs, and looks at him as she runs a hand through her hair.  “Look.  I don’t care if it’s a short set.  I don’t care if it’s one song.  Just… please.  You have to be there, on stage, with those other bands.  You have to put yourselves front and centre of this.  And Hawke… you and Anders… you seem to have… I don’t know.  A connection or something.  He likes you.  I don’t get the feeling that he likes anyone else in our little group the way he likes you.”

 

Hawke makes a face, and finds himself lost for words.  Then he realises who he’s talking to, and blows a raspberry.  “Oh, Aveline.  It’s so  _ precious _ to hear you talking about  _ emotions _ and  _ connections. _ ”  She glares at him and he laughs.  “Alright!  Okay, I’ll talk to him.  But if he gives me one of his stern talking to’s, I’m blaming you.”

 

-|||-

 

“Hawke, hey, Hawke, get your ass in here!”  Varric is more than halfway to being plastered, and Hawke grins at him.  

“Varric!  Me old buccaneer!”  He makes a face and Varric laughs.  “Sorry, I don’t know why I called you that.”

“Because you’re a weirdo,” Isabela laughs and holds up both hands, “Look, no beers to throw.  I promise.”

“Bloody good thing that,”  Hawke glowers at her, then grins, wipes at his nose with the back of his hand. “Oh!  Hey, Anders.”  

 

Anders looks up from a sheaf of paper and blinks.  “Hey,” he says, then looks at Varric, “Varric, you don’t want me to read all this now, do you?”

“Um, no?” Varric says, and to Hawke he sounds nervous.  “No, you don’t have to read it.  I just… y’know.  Wanted to see what you thought.”

Anders looks relieved, and puts the pile of paper into a little box, sitting next to him on the floor.  He stretches his legs out in front of himself and puts his hands over his eyes, rubbing them, groaning.  Hawke laughs and nudges his heel with one foot.  “Oi,” he says, “Are you coming out with us or what?”

 

“No,” Anders says from behind his hands.  “Not tonight.  I’m too tired.”

“Aw, go on,” Hawke says, and raises an eyebrow, “I’ll let you buy me a drink.”

Anders snorts a laugh and draws his hands down over his face, looking at Hawke and smiling.  “As appealing as that offer is, I believe I’ll decline.  But if you lot are heading off now, I guess that’s my cue…”

“Hey, Blondie,” Varric says as Anders rises from the floor, “You wanna take the book with you?”

“Uh,” Anders says reluctantly, and then looks at Varric, “Alright.”

 

“Hey, you don’t have to,” Varric tells him, and Isabela laughs.  

“Yes, he does, sweetpea.  He was too dumb to say no when you asked him, and now he has to read the whole thing.  Now come on, I don’t want to miss Black City Blues; they suck, but they’ve got a cute drummer.”

“Got a bit of a thing for drummers, do we, Izzy?” Hawke teases, and Isabela pokes her tongue out at him.  He laughs, waggling his eyebrows at her, and Varric opens the front door, heading down the stairs, his voice echoing back at Isabela, “So is there really something going on between you and Daisy?”

 

“Varric, I’ve just come up a name for your novel!” Isabela tells him, “You want to hear it?  It’s  _ Shut Your Fucking Face, Tethras _ .”

“Sounds like a winner,” Anders laughs, arranging the box with Varric’s novel in it under his arm.  He sighs and Hawke gestures to the door, grinning. As Anders precedes him to the door and the stairwell beyond, Hawke looks at his face carefully.  Thinner, more worn looking than before, there is a slouch to his shoulders that Hawke doesn’t like one bit.  He frowns in concern, then touches Anders lightly on the arm.  “Hey,” he asks, “How’re you holding up?”

“Me?  I’m fine,” Anders says, but the way he cuts his eyes away from Hawke’s gaze tells Hawke otherwise.  He shakes his head.

“You’re an awful liar,” he tells Anders, who frowns at him.  “No-one’s expecting you to be fine.  No-one’s expecting you to be normal.  Just…”  He sighs, “Man, what can I do?”

 

Anders shakes his head.  “Nothing.  Not really.  It’s just… I feel so angry, all the time.  I mean, I’ve always been, I don’t know, resentful, I suppose, at the situation that the Templars put me in.  But… it was never as large as this before.  It was always just  _ myself _ , my own inconvenience, that caused the resentment.  The fact that I couldn’t just go and do the things that I wanted to do, be with who I wanted to be with, I had to be watched all the time because of what the Maker had made me.  The shame they made me feel.  But now...The Circle’s are worse than ever, the curfew, Karl’s…”  He pauses, drops his eyes, “Karl.  And to know that he wasn’t the first, he won’t be the last…”  Anders trails off and sighs, then resumes, “Everyday I see something new, some new injustice that just… it…”  

 

There is quiet, then Hawke asks, “So.  Is… is this gig we’re doing, is it making things better?  Or making them worse?  Because, you know, if it’s making things worse for you then I don’t…”

“No, no.  It’s not.  It’s… actually good.  I just wish that… I wish I had more to do.  I mean, Varric suggested I try writing, but…” Anders laughs bitterly, and raises his eyebrows, “I feel like that’s just throwing paper into the Void.”

Hawke snorts a quiet laugh and shrugs.  “It never seems to stop Varric.  Hey…” He swallows, fights the instinct to take a step away, out of the danger zone before he asks, “Avi said you didn’t want to play at the gig.  Is…”

 

Anders laughs again, the same bitter, broken sound.  “It’s not that I don’t want to.  I just… all our songs are about fighting, or sex, or… both.  And… I don’t want to do that kind of music.  Honestly, I feel like if I get through a set without breaking down entirely, it’ll be some kind of miracle.  So no.  I don’t want to do it.”

“What if… what if it was just you and me?  We don’t have to do much - just one song.  And we don’t even have to do our own stuff.  How does that sound?  Or - you don’t have to say now.  You can just think about it.  But think about it, okay?”

Anders looks at the floor, silent, and then nods.  “Alright.  Just… just you and me?”  He looks at Hawke, frowning slightly, and then says, “Are you sure Izzy and Merrill would be alright with that?”

“Dunno.  Can’t imagine why not.  Merry’d do anything for you, I don’t think she’d care as long as you were happy with it.  And Izzy… I don’t know,” he repeats, and shrugs.  “But I think she’d come ‘round.  It’s your gig, after all.”

Anders nods again.  “Alright,” he repeats, and smiles sadly.  “It’s not my gig though.  It’s Karl’s.  But… yeah.  Alright.”

 

-|||-

 

Hawke stumbles to the phone, picking it up on the third ring.  “Hello?” he asks, waving Gamlen away, who mutters something grumpily, then turns on his heel and goes back to bed.  There is nothing, only silence on the line, and Hawke asks again, “Hello?”

 

“Hawke?  Is that you?”

“Fenris?  Shit!  Fenris?  How are you, are you alright?  How’s the tour?  Where are you?”

The line crackles, and Fenris’ voice comes back to him, distorted, “Hawke?  Are you there?”

“Yes, yes!  I’m here.  Fenris, can you hear me?”

“Yes, but you are faint.”  Silence for a long time, and Hawke is about to ask if Fenris is still there, wondering if maybe they are disconnected, when Fenris asks, “How are you?”

“I’m… I’m fine, Fen, who cares about me, how are you? Where are you calling from?”

Fenris laughs, but it sounds miserable to Hawke, and he frowns, wishing he could touch Fenris, hold him just for a short while.  “Today I have the day off.  I am in Orlais; tomorrow I play at the Halamshiral Ballroom.  They tell me it is sold out, all three nights.  Last night I played at Sahrina.  It was alright, though the acoustics were disappointing, and…  Nevermind.”  A quiet laugh, “I am fine.”

“Oh.  Okay.”  Silence again, and it is awkward this time, pensive.  “Uh… we’re doing a gig soon.  With Highever Orphan.”   _ Maybe _ , he amends mentally, then continues, “A charity gig.”

 

“That is a foolish idea,” Fenris says bluntly, “Why would you elect to undercut your own worth by giving your music away for free?  Are they getting the profits?  Has Fortress undercut you on your payment?”

“It… it’s not for free.  It’s to raise money for this charity; Anders’ boyfriend got…”

“Oh.  Anders.”  There is the noise of a snort down the line, and Fenris says, “It figures.”

“Sweet Maker, Fen… his boyfriend got killed.”  Hawke frowns, momentarily shocked, then asks, “What’s up with you?”

“It is…” There hangs a pregnant pause down the line, a beat of nothing but silence, and Hawke blows out a breath, as quietly as he can.  “It is nothing.  Do not concern yourself with it.”  A pause again, then Fenris asks, “Are you with Anders now?”

 

“Anders?  What?  No.   _ No! _  Maker, Fen, are you listening to me?   _ Anders’ boyfriend got killed _ , he was killed by Templars.  It’s fucked here, so fucked, and even if I was interested in moving on, which I’m not, then…”  Hawke takes a deep breath and holds it, sniffs, then asks through a forced smile, “So.  What are you going to do on your day off?”

“I have not decided.  Who’s idea was it to do this so-called charity gig?”

“Merrill’s.  You’ve really got no idea what you want to do for fun?  I hear Orlais is practically dripping with fun times to be had.  I always wanted to go there.  See, I even learnt some Orlesian:  _ voulez-vous coucher avec moi, c’est soir, Monsieur _ ?

 

It’s a terrible attempt at levity, and they both know it.  There is a strong crackle on the line, and Hawke winces, puts the phone away from his ear until it has dissipated.  Finally, he can no longer stand the silence.  “Fen?  Are you still there?”

The moment drags.  Then Fenris’ voice is on the other end of the line, telling him, “I do not know why I called.  I am sorry, Hawke.”

“No, Fen, no, I’m glad you called,” Hawke babbles, but the line crackles and goes dead.  “Fen?  Fenris?  Fenris, are you there?  Aw, come back.  Come back, you son of a bitch, you can’t do that, that’s… that’s…” There is only the open dial tone in his ear, and Hawke grips it, pulls it away from his head.  Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s slamming the receiver repeatedly into the wall, teeth gritted in frustration, small grunts of rage and effort escaping him.  All he knows is the thought circling around his head, those words,  _ are you with Anders now? _ that one question; the question which had made his stomach pitch with guilt, because that’s what he wants, he wants Anders, he knows it, wants him almost as fiercely as he wants Fenris.  He drops the receiver, puts both hands and his forehead on the cool wall, feels the texture of the wallpaper beneath his skin.  “Come back,” he whispers, and regrets it.


	13. Chapter 13

“Hello?”  It’s a woman’s voice on the line, strongly accented in the tones of northern Fereldan.  “Is Aveline there, please?”

“Nope,” Hawke tells her, “She’s out.  You want to leave a message?”

“Um,” the voice says, and then there is a pause, “Orright, well, is ‘Ders there then?   It’s Gwen.  He’ll know who it…”

“Gwen? Fuck, Gwen Cousland-Theirin?  From Highever Orphan?”  Hawke flaps his hand at Merrill and Varric, who have both glanced up at the name.  “Hang on.  Are you calling with bad news, or good?”

 

Gwen laughs, “‘t all depends on if yeh like our music.  We’re comin’ for a visit to your fair city.  What’s your name, cock?”

“Uh, it’s not cock, that’s for sure… Maker, you northerners.”  Hawke laughs, and says quickly, in case she takes offence, “I love your music.  And my name’s Tal.  Tal Hawke.  I’m the guitarist for Fader, Anders’ band.  His new band, I mean.”

 

“Orright then, Tal.  Well, yeh know about this gig then?  This Remember Karl Thekla thing?  Yeh can tell Aveline and ‘Ders that we’ll be there.  Tell ‘Ders I wouldn’t fookin’ miss it for the world; tell him me ‘n’ Ferg both send our love.  We’ll be there the day before the gig, orright?  Yeh writin’ all this down?  You gettin’ all this?”

“I’m getting it, I’m getting it,” Hawke says, and Gwen laughs.

“Orright then.  Get Aveline to give us a call when she comes in.  She’s got our number, but best take it down just in case, right?”

She rattles off the digits, and Hawke grabs a pen and scribbles on the back of his hand.  “Yeh get that all, didja, Tal?”

 

“I got it.  Hey,”  Hawke smiles into the receiver, “Thanks, Gwen.  Thanks a lot.  It’ll mean a lot to him.  It means a lot to all of us.”

“Ah well.  Honest, ‘Ders is a good bloke, ‘n’ I know he’d do the same for me.  Bloody government types are always fookin’ it all up, and any chance a little guy gets to stand up to it, stands to reason they should take it.  I best get going, cock, but remember about Aveline, right?  And give our lad a big hug from me before I can give him one myself?”

“Will do.  Thanks again, Gwen.  We’ll see you soon.”

“‘Bye, Tal.  Nice talkin’ to yeh.”

 

Hawke snorts a laugh and puts down the phone.  “What?” he says to Varric and Merrill, who are still looking at him.  “Oh.  Yes.  Highever Orphan just confirmed.  They’re coming.  They’ll play.”

Merrill lets out a huge shriek and bounds over to Hawke.  She grabs him in a huge hug, and he laughs and picks her up.  She shrieks again, and before they know it, he is dancing around in a circle with her.  “Unhand that elf,” Varric booms, grinning fit to split.  Hawke laughs and sets Merrill gently on her feet again.  

“Wow.  Wow, she’s really nice.  I kind of can’t believe I just got to talk to Gwen Cousland-Theirin.”  Hawke rubs a hand over the side of his head, feels the freshly shaved patch there.  He grins.  “So that’s it, right?  We’ve got the set now.”

 

“Yup.  And that means that we don’t have to use up a ton of black marker scribbling out Orphan’s name from all the posters,” Varric laughs.  He glances at the clock on the wall and looks at Hawke, “Don’t you have to go rehearse?  If you want me to give Aveline the message when she gets back, I can.”

“Shit,” Hawke mutters.  He’d told Anders he’d meet him at his place this afternoon, that they’d go through some songs for the gig.  “Yeah,  would you?  Hang on,” he says, retrieving the pen and grabbing a piece of paper from Varric’s desk.  He transcribes the number Gwen had given him from his hand to the sheet, and gives it to Varric.  “Get her to call Gwen, okay, soon as she gets in?”

“Sure thing,”  Varric says, looking at the numbers scrawled on the white page.  Hawke grins and jiggles, then laughs and says, “Highever Orphan!” Merrill laughs and raises both her fists.

“Can’t wait!” she says, and beams.

 

-|||-

 

They are in the Hanged Man, having dragged Aveline away from the phone for a drink.  “You leave that bloody thing here,” Varric had told her, snatching the clipboard to which she’d become dangerously attached as Merrill pushed her grimly from behind, and Anders held the door open, smiling slightly.  “Come on, Avie, you need a drink.  All work and no play and all that.”

And it’s just as well too, because as Hawke gets a round in, Isabela comes in, talking animatedly with a blonde elven man, who is accompanied by two dark haired humans.  The elf has his eyes narrowed, laughing; he has one arm around one of the human’s waists.  Isabela sees Hawke at the bar, raises her hand and yells to him, “Hey, Tal!  Look what I found at the airport!”

“Ah! Zevran and the rest of your murder!  That is what a group of crows is called, isn’t it?” Hawke grins and raises his own hand, “What are you drinking, chaps?”

 

Zevran grins at Hawke, then elbows one of his companions, “This must be your opposite number, Taliesen.  A pleasure to meet you, Hawke… please, allow me to make introductions.  This fine specimen to my left is our own Taliesen - he is also a guitarist.  Spooky, no?”  The man he’s introduced, the other Taliesen, smirks and nods.  Hawke grins, leans back on the bar and says, “A pleasure to meet you, other-Tal.”  He laughs and shrugs, and Zevran grins at him.  His eyes flick up and down, curious, seeming to take in Hawke’s whole body with a glance, and Hawke smirks, raises an eyebrow.  Impossible to tell if the glance is merely flirtatious or if there is real intent hidden there.  The man that Zevran has his arm around frowns worriedly, and seems to sigh.  Zevran cocks his head, and puts his hand on the man’s stomach - a gesture of comfort, perhaps, or perhaps it is placating.  “And this gorgeous creature is my very own Nico.  Nico Valsti, one of the finest drummers this side of… well, anywhere.”  Nico casts his gaze downward, smiling slightly, and Zevran beams up at him.  

 

“Little biased there, are we, Zev,” Isabela smirks, and Zevran laughs heartily.

“Extremely!  Nico is not only a talented drummer - he has excellent taste in wine, in clothes…”

“And in men?” Hawke laughs, and pushes himself off the bar, striding the three steps over to the little group.  As he shakes their hands each in turn, he tells them, “Look, we really appreciate you doing this.  We know it’s a big deal, to support a cause like this, even… you know, well, especially if you’re not magic-enabled yourselves.  And…”

Isabela rolls her eyes and Zevran smiles and waves him to silence.  “Hawke, please.  To be honest, perhaps it is not my first choice of causes.  But no-one should live in fear in this beautiful world; not because of who they love, or who they are, and certainly not because of what they cannot help.  Freedom is a beautiful thing.  And…” he shrugs and grins at Isabela, then laughs, “if supporting a cause which calls for freedom also turns into an excuse for catching up with old friends, then that is also good.  Tell me, when is Gwen arriving?”

 

“Tomorrow morning, bozo,” Isabela tells him, and shakes her head.  “Get a couple of bottles of whatever wine Corff’s got lurking around, huh, Tal?  Get ‘em plastered enough, Antivan’s’ll drink anything.”

Zevran pouts playfully, but both Nico and Taliesen laugh.  “It’s true,” Nico says quietly, and hugs Zevran closer to him, “Don’t deny it,  _ bello.   _ Don’t even try.”

“But I’m very trying,” Zevran shoots back, grinning, then turning to quickly peck Nico on the cheek.  

“Are they always this disgusting?” Hawke asks the other Taliesen, who rolls his eyes and nods.  

“Not on stage though, thank the Maker,” he says, his voice quiet.  Isabela sighs, and chivvies Crow Blade over to meet the rest of the Kirkwallers. “Are you alright?” Hawke asks her as she passes, and she drops him a wink.

“Never better, darling.  Just hurry up and get those drinks in - I have a feeling I’m going to need all the alcohol I can get, these next few days.”

 

-|||-

 

Hawke is nervous.  His very skin seems to cry out for just a little fix, but he rubs his sweating palms together and smiles at Merrill instead.  The gig, so far, is a total success - the Hanged Man is utterly packed, the crowd good natured, though there is a strange current of tension that underlays the proceedings.  Velanna has already played; Hawke had seen Anders talking to her and a dark haired man just before she had mounted the stage and sat down at the keyboard.  She had smiled and addressed the crowd only with, “You know, they told me I’d have a piano tonight.  The things I do for love,” before starting her set, and Hawke had glanced at Aveline, who had looked affronted for a moment, and then rolled her eyes.  In this moment, he adores her - she has pretty much single handedly organised this whole endeavour.  

 

Merrill puts her arm around his waist and leans her head against his shoulder as they watch Crow Blade perform from the wings of the small stage.    Zevran laughs at something Nico tells him, then jumps up and down with his bass, hair flying, and then steps up to the mic.  “My friends,” he says, suddenly sobering, “my beautiful friends, we are at the end of our time.”  The crowd groans, but there is laughter mingled into it, because the change in Zevran’s demeanor is so abrupt.  He smiles slightly, letting the bass hang free around his neck as he puts both hands up to hold onto the microphone.  He takes a deep breath and glances to the wings, then continues, “Tonight, it is about more than just our own little selves, is that not right?  Tonight is about remembering, remembering that we are not all free.  And, while I would be the last to tell you to stop enjoying yourselves…” he smiles, and Hawke sees Taliesen laugh as he exchanges his electric guitar for an acoustic, “It is something we all must consider.  The world can only get better if we help it along.  If we all stand together.”  He smiles winningly at the crowd, who applaud, and Taliesen begins a simple progression on the guitar.

 

“My friends are so depressed,” Zevran sings, “I feel… a question of your loneliness…”  Nico joins him, singing counterpoint harmony on the next lines, “Ah, ‘cause I’ll be on your side… you know I will, you know I will…”  Hawke hears Isabela laugh from beside him, and Zevran turns as if he has heard as well.  It would be impossible for him to see into the wings, with the bright stage lights, but he blinks and grins, then winks, seemingly at her as he sings the line, “Ex-girlfriend called me up… alone, and desperate on her prison phone…”  Isabela laughs again.  The music is gathering strength, the additional drums and bass bolstering the tone; while the lyrics are sad, there is an undercurrent of something lovely here too, something that Hawke cannot quite put his finger on.  He feels a light touch on his shoulder, and Anders is there.  He looks drawn, almost sick, and Hawke frowns a little.  Anders leans forward, speaking into his ear, “That’s our cue.  Are… are you ready?”

 

And Hawke nods.  He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

 

-|||-

 

The crowd roars its approval as Zevran laughs and waves.  He takes the microphone from its stand and hands it to Varric, who smacks him playfully on the arse and says into the mic, “Crow Blade, Hanged Man!” as the crowd hollers and applaudes again.  Varric waits a beat, his smile dying, becoming strained, and the crowd eventually sobers as well.  “You know,” Varric begins, “It’s a hard thing to be different.”  He takes a deep breath, and says levelly, “But no-one should have to die for it.”

 

The crowd is silent, and the entire room seems to be holding its breath.  “In this room, maybe only a few of you knew Karl Thekla.  Hell, I didn’t know him.  But I know how he made my friends feel; I know what he was to them.  And I know that what happened to Karl, it wasn’t something that was a first time occurrence, or, I believe, an accident.  I know that, right here.”  Varric touches his chest with his free hand, and a whisper rushes through the crowd.  “I know that the people in charge have told us that it was, and that it’ll be investigated.  But man, I’ve lived in Kirkwall all my life - things are changing here, and I don’t think it’s for the better.  So we gotta all stand together, we gotta take a stand now, otherwise they’ll take us apart.  Because today they’re telling us that mages are different, and that they should be feared.  But they’ve told us before that elves are lazy and that you shouldn’t hire them; that humans are violent, that they’ll take any excuse for a swedge.  They’ve told us that dwarves are shifty, and can’t be trusted.”  Varric pauses to take a deep breath, then smiles grimly.  “We need to question everything, because if we let this shit go down now, when it’s mages in the firing line, then tomorrow - well...shit.  Tomorrow, it could be us.”

 

There is a deathly hush in the room now, and Hawke clutches the neck of his guitar.  He can feel the nerves pouring in waves from Anders, feel the weight of his presence in the Fade around them.  His own magic reacts to it, reaching out, and he tries to push it down, feels the electricity crawl under his fingernails.  “Karl Thekla was a lot of things, to a bunch of different people,” Varric is saying now, “He was a teacher, a supporter, he was a friend.  He was loved.  He was someone who lived in the world, was part of it, even if he was shut away in a Circle.  If we forget him, if we forget what he was, who he was, then that is our mistake.  Now, you guys have heard enough from me.”  Varric smiles at the audience, into the stage lights, and he says, “And I spent a damn long time talking Blondie into doing this, so I ain’t gonna take up more of his time on stage.”  Varric gestures to Hawke and Anders, standing in the wings, and Hawke glances at Anders, sees how terrified he looks.  For a moment, Hawke is on the verge of shaking his head to Varric, of telling him no, this was a stupid idea.  Then he looks back at Anders, and in that moment he suddenly looks fearsome, and he strides out onto the stage.  Hawke tries to swallow, feels his dry throat only click instead, and follows.

 

Anders takes the microphone from Varric, as Hawke pulls the strap of his guitar over his head.  Anders adjusts the stand up as the crowd applauds politely, nervously.  “Thank you, Varric,” Anders says quietly, and then looks out at the crowd.  “Thank you all for coming.” He sighs, and the sound is caught by the microphone, pushed out into a crackling noise that seems to reverberate around the quiet space.  “We’re only here for one song.  It’s just Tal and I tonight.  And this isn’t our song, not Fader’s song, but it… it was one of Karl’s… one of his favourites.”

Hawke glances at Anders, who frowns, swallows, and then nods.  Hawke begins to strum the melody of the song into the hush.  Honestly, he’s just waiting to be booed off stage, the phrase  _ stupid idea, stupid idea! _ going around and around in his head.  He chances a glance at Anders, who has his eyes closed, concentrating, one hand on the microphone in its stand.  “Oh, where have you been, my blue eyed son?”  he sings, and his voice wavers slightly, then holds strong.  “And where have you been, my darling young one?”  

 

Hawke takes a deep breath then exhales slowly, feeling how the air in his lungs shakes out of him.  Anders’ voice continues to gain in strength as he sings this old song, listing the places he’s wandered.  Anders’ eyes are still closed; Hawke watches him, stomach in knots, prepared at any second for the catcalls to start, half his mind on the shapes his fingers are making, the other half carefully testing the mood of the audience.  And Maker but he needs a fix, but he’s told Anders he’d try not to do so much blue, and he wants to try, but this, this is testing his will.  If he could just have a little blue, it would take the edge off.  He shifts, concentrates again on how still Anders is, how the crowd are swaying slightly, the first couple of rows light softly by the yellow lights on the stage.  He sees how Anders’ knuckles are white on the hand which grips the microphone, and he sings, “...I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard…” then his eyes open slowly, and he sings, his voice desperate, harsh, “And it’s hard… it’s hard… it’s hard, and it’s a hard…” his voice rises to a howl, a sob, “it’s a hard rain’s… a-gonna fall.”

 

The song continues.  Anders never moves, but as they reach the third verse, Hawke notices that there is a strange aura of calm which now seems to pervade across the room.  Is it calm, he wonders, or would it be too dramatic to call it fatalism?  He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the feeling.   _ Things are changing here, and I don’t think it’s for the better _ \- Varric’s words repeat in his head, and he swallows, the remembrance doing nothing to quell the roiling of his stomach, the queasy pitch of it.  “Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter…” Anders sings, and Hawke looks at him sharply, sees the tears making tracks down his cheeks, shining in the stage lights, “Heard the sound of the clown who cried down the alley.”  And then Anders glances at him and smiles, a small smile, but true, peaceful.  And he turns that smile out into the audience, as Hawke smiles back.

 

The audience really are moving now.  Hawke looks out, sees a woman openly weeping, a man with his arm around her, looking grim.  He wonders who they are; he sees a tired looking elf, his arms folded over a Highever Orphan t-shirt, staring intently, raptly up at Anders, eyes shining.  Hawke blinks, sees more people, people upon people - some with their backs turned away, whispering - some clinging to each other - some staring, some angry.  But all of them are affected in some way by this song, by Anders’ voice, and he knows that Aveline was right - they needed to be here.  His heart suddenly swells with pride and he looks at Anders again, fiercely proud of him, for standing up here, for putting himself on the line, his love, his emotions.

 

“What’ll you do now, my blue eyed son?” Anders sings, and Hawke sees his fists are clenched, but his eyes are once more closed.  “Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?”  He smiles through the next line, though his voice wavers with emotion, “I’m a-goin’ back out, ‘fore the rain starts a-fallin’... I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest…”  Hawke takes a step closer to him, wanting, needing to lend his presence to Anders’ to let him know somehow that they stand together, no matter what the future may bring.  It has affected him profoundly, watching Anders stand here, sing his love for Karl.  “And I’ll tell it, and think it, and breathe it and speak it,” Anders sings, his voice risen to a high pitch now, throbbing with emotion, eyes squeezed shut, Hawke’s fingers are aching, he knows he’s bearing down too hard on the strings, strumming too hard, but he cannot help it, he cannot.  “Then I’ll stand on the ocean ‘til I start a-sinkin’... and I’ll know my song well before I start singin’... and it’s hard… it’s hard… it’s hard… and it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.”

 

Hawke plays the outro, and Anders steps away from the microphone.  He is breathing hard, Hawke sees, and looks utterly exhausted.  The last notes fade from his guitar, and there is a moment of the most pure, perfect silence that Hawke has ever known in the middle of a gig.  It holds true, this lull, until a short, red haired woman walks quickly out onto the stage.  She is crying openly, black makeup smeared over her eyes, running down her cheeks. “Ah, ‘Ders,” she sobs, and throws her arms around him.  They stand on stage together for a moment in this hush, until tentatively, the applause starts.  It grows, swelling in volume until it becomes a roar of noise in Hawke’s ears, and he realises that he too is crying.  Impatiently, he wipes at the tears with the back of his hand, and sniffs.  Anders pulls away from Gwen, wipes his eyes and smiles at her.  She grins up at him, and turns slightly, putting one hand on the mic, pulling it down to her height so that she can tell the crowd, “Andraste’s Arse, Fader, that’s a hell of an act to follow!”

 

The crowd seem like they are roused from a dream - at Gwen’s words, they applaud harder and call out, mostly inarticulate noise.  It is almost as if her emotion has freed them from the tenseness of the situation, or maybe it is that it has shamed them into a response of their own.  Hawke doesn’t know.  He only smiles, then steps forward, putting his hand to the small of Anders’ back.  Gwen relinquishes her hold on Anders, and says into the microphone, “Come on, you lot, you can do better’n that!  Let's hear it for these lads, yeah?”

 

The crowd roars, and Gwen shrugs.  “Better’n nothing, I suppose.  Starkhaven were louder…” There is some good-natured booing at that, and Gwen laughs, “Alright, alright.  Fader, you lot!  One last time, lemme hear you give ‘em a good send off!”

 

Hawke snorts and guides Anders off stage.  A shortish, red haired man smiles at a tall blonde woman and says, “Come on, ‘Nora, that’s our cue.  Can’t leave Gwennie out there by herself…”

“Gwen is more than capable,” the tall woman tells him regally, and then taps her drumsticks on her leather-clad thighs.  “Good set, you two,” she tells them as the two of them stride forward, past Hawke and Anders, “and for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for your loss.”

 

The woman walks past, and Hawke turns, watching her go.  “Was that…?” he asks and Anders nods.  

“Anora MacTir.  She used to be in Traitor’s Daughter.”  Anders sighs, and looks at Hawke in the gloom backstage.  The remnants of the stage lights play strangely on his face, and he looks exhausted, more bone-tired than Hawke has ever seen him.  “Hey, I think I’m going to go.  I’m beat.  Will you tell Aveline for me?”

 

Hawke looks at Anders, and frowns in concern.   _ Are you ready to be… liberated?  On this sad side city street… Well the birds have been freed from their cages… I got freedom and my youth…  _ Gwen sings behind them, and Anders gazes back at Hawke blankly, his eyes glazed.  “I’ll take you, okay?  I’ll come with you,” Hawke says, and Anders shakes his head.

 

“No, I’m fine.  I can get home, I’m not that far gone…”

“It’s not about that,” Hawke says roughly, and then blinks.  “You looked after me, alright?  When I was shitfaced over Fen, you looked out for me.  Let me do that now, alright?  Andraste’s Tits, man, it doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

The crowd noise is intense now that Highever Orphan are on-stage, but Hawke only has eyes for Anders, watching his face lose all expression in the light from the stage.  Someone thumps him, hard, in the shoulder and he turns slightly,  _ fuck off _ ready on his tongue when he sees it is Isabela.  She looks at him, then looks at Anders and tells them, “Get out of here, you two.  Damn, you were fucking brilliant.  You could have been more brilliant, if I was on stage with you, but…”  She shakes her head, narrowing her eyes and smiling, then looking worriedly at them.  “Get home.  Sleep.  Do whatever you need to do.  We’ll keep the boat afloat here.”  She smiles at them, almost sheepishly, then says, “Go on.  Get.”

 

Hawke nods.  He takes Anders’ elbow, and begins to guide him away, out of the hustle and rush of backstage.  They walk together to the green room, where Hawke quickly stows his guitar, shutting it carefully in its case.  He wonders vaguely if Anora had recognised it, and smiles slightly.  Then he looks at Anders, and he feels concern push his brows down again, a tendril of worry curling coldly around his heart.  “Let’s go,” he says, and Anders only nods.

 

-|||-

 

The walk to Darktown is uneventful.  Hawke walks Anders to his door, and stands awkwardly as Anders fumbles with his keys.  The huge, weighted door creaks slightly as Anders pushes at it, and he sniffs into the oppressive darkness of the covered alley.  There is a scurrying, scratching noise at Hawke’s feet, and he looks down to see a rat scuttle over his boot and away, down into the depths.  He steps back in disgust, and then looks up at Anders.  

 

There isn’t anything there any longer; none of the light and shade of expression that Hawke has been used to seeing on that face.  That’s what he usually likes about talking with Anders - the way his face moves when he talks, the way his expressions speak as eloquently as his words.  But now, it is as if the energy he has expended to sing has depleted his reserves right to the core, and now there is nothing left.  “Hey,” Hawke says softly, “Come on.  Let’s get you in.”

 

He takes Anders’ arm, guiding him past the door, into the dim space.  The air is foetid, close, but Hawke manages to find a candle, remembering where the desk sits against one wall.  He lights the candle with a click of his fingers, touching the burning tip of it to the almost-spent wick.  Then he takes the candle, trailing after Anders, who has wandered through an open door and into the blackness beyond.

 

Hawke enters after him, and the light of the single candle shows him a small bed, neatly made.  The bed sags in the middle, and it stinks of mildew in here, but everything is tidy, almost obsessively so.  Anders stares at the bed for a moment, and Hawke touches the wick of the burning candle to another sitting on an almost bare shelf, then blows out the one he is holding.  

 

Anders shakes his head, still looking at the bed.  “We made love there.  He used to hold me so close afterward, like he’d never let go.  And I always, I always laughed and wanted to get free, told him he was crushing me, but he never…  and now he’s…”  Anders clenches his fists, and stays silent.  Hawke drags in a lungful of the close air, and goes to him, bending to kneel before him, deftly undoing Anders’ laces.  Every part of his body is crying out for  _ something _ , some fix, a smoke, a little blue, a drink, anything, but he resists with what little will remains to him.  “Foot up,” he says gently, and after a moments hesitation, Anders complies.  Hawke tugs off the first sneaker, and the sock as well, then says, “Other one.”  Anders lifts his foot, and Hawke pulls the other shoe off too, placing it next to the first.  He rises, looking at Anders’ face.  

 

Anders averts his eyes, blinking slowly.  “Do… do you want me to stay?” Hawke asks, and Anders shrugs.  He looks awful, in deep pain as he continues to stare at the bed, and then he whispers, “I can’t sleep there.”

Hawke nods grimly.  He bites his lip, thinking, then says uselessly, “Wait here?”  He picks up the candle he’d used before, and re-lights it, then goes back into the main living area, where he hunts in a cupboard until he finds the two blankets that Anders had given him when he’d stayed last time.  He throws them over to the door of the bedroom, then walks to the sofa and grabs the threadbare cushions, throwing them over too.  Then he walks quickly back to the bedroom, extinguishing the candle as he does.

 

The little room is dimming, the candle guttering in its puddle of wax.  Anders is standing in the middle of the room, but he has turned slightly, watching Hawke.  Hawke takes the pillows from the bed and puts them on the floor, lining up the sofa cushions and the extra blankets.  Then he drags the coverlet off the bed, laying it carefully over the top of his makeshift mattress and smiles wanly at the mess.  “There,” he says, “Is… is that… better?  You think you could sleep now?”

Anders shakes his head, smiles gently.  “I don’t think I’ll sleep tonight.  But… you said… about staying?”  He hesitates, then asks softly, “Would you?”

Hawke nods, and kneels, undoing the laces of his boots, the  _ click-click! _ of the ends through the eyelets loud in the deep quiet.  Anders stands above him, tense, silent as Hawke struggles off first one boot, then the next.  “C’mon,” Hawke says, and knee-walks over the concrete floor to the horrid little pile of blankets and pillows he’s made.  Anders walks over as well, getting down on the floor alongside him.  There is a moment of awkwardness as Anders lays down, pulling half the blanket over himself, his head on the pillow, facing away from Hawke, and Hawke wonders how much comfort he should give, what the hell caused him to offer this in the first place.   _ He’s a friend _ , he thinks,  _ just… _ but he doesn’t know.  So he shuffles a little closer, taking up the other half of the blanket, lying down facing Anders’ back, not touching, just hoping that his presence will be enough.  “Please,” Anders says softly, and squirms backward, closer to Hawke, “Could you..?”

 

Hawke grunts, and tentatively, puts his arm around Anders’ chest.  He lies there, trying to relax, his stomach in knots, the cold of the floor rising up under the too-thin pillows.  Anders’ hair smells like stale beer and sweat, and Hawke smiles sadly.  He swallows, closes his eyes, and then Anders whispers, “Tal?”

“Mmmf?” Hawke murmurs, and hears Anders sigh.  There is a long pause, and Hawke tries to slow his breathing, slow the pace of his heart, hoping that Anders will feel it somehow, be lulled to sleep by him.  “Goodnight,” he hears Anders whisper, and he swallows again.  The candle flickers, gutters, and then goes out, the flame eaten by the mounting wax around it.  “Goodnight,” Hawke whispers back, into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly at the end of this one, my lovelies. Some notes and a poster though...  
> \- Firstly, most importantly, I have to thank the ever-generous Earlgreyer - Nico Valsti is Earl's creation, and he is such a delight (much like his creator), that I had to have him as a canon part of this 'verse. If you haven't read [The House of Crows series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/297473) I would highly recommend you away and do it, because it's only through reading that that I can write Zevran at all. Earl is a delight to work with (and I'm looking forward to your comments on part 2 of this story, m'dear! I could not still be doing this without you, and that's the truth.)
> 
> So, to music!  
> \- Crow Blade are performing ['My Friends'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0kT5w27YxyI) by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, from their 1995 album 'One Hot Minute'  
> \- Highever Orphan are performing ['The Young Crazed Peeling'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MIGcpQ_E_Uk) by the Distillers from their album 'Sing Sing Death House' (2002)  
> \- And lastly, Anders and Hawke are performing Bob Dylan's ['A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ex-m-eEKsg), which has been recorded by a bunch of other artists too. It originally appeared in 1963, on Dylan's album 'The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan'.
> 
> And, again, because I'm a dork for this stuff, [here's the poster](http://littlexabyss.tumblr.com/post/146647448054/live-til-you-die-holy-holy-holy-chapter) that they're talking about.


	14. Chapter 14

“So?” Isabela asks, her arms folded over her chest.  “I think we should release it.”

“We can’t,” Aveline tells her impatiently, “It sucks.  I don’t want my name - your band! - attached to something which reeks this badly…”

“What are you trying to say, Avie?” Isabela gestures angrily to the tape deck on the table in the centre of their group.  Hawke glances at Anders, who shrugs noncommittally and tucks his legs underneath himself on Varric’s sofa.  “We can’t give any more than what you’ve got there.  And until we get in a studio…”

“Which we won’t be able to until we’ve got money..”

“Point taken, but until we do, we have to do  _ something _ .  Bloody hell, you were the one that wanted Fader to perform at the benefit, now you want to chicken out?  We have to ride this wave, otherwise any surge will die, and we’ll be left in the same place as before.”

 

“Do you think I don’t know all of that?”  Aveline huffs in annoyance and flips open the tape deck, taking the tape out and holding it in two hands, cradling it.  “I’m not willing to sacrifice quality for potential.  We’ll go north with Orphan, and do that tour, then we’ll come back and record off the back of that…”

Isabela shakes her head.  “Nope.  We’re going to start selling bootlegs of that tape  _ right now _ .  At the next show.  And we’re going to keep selling them, and we’re going to get our hands on some merch, and we’re going to sell that too.  You saw that t-shirt at the Pit, right?”  Aveline frowns and nods, “Well then, isn’t it better we make ‘em and sell ‘em, rather than other people doing it for us?  Don’t be an idiot, big girl.  Why are you even here?”

 

“Because you’re meant to be playing bass and writing songs, not telling me how to do my job.  Which isn’t really my job, because I’m not getting paid for it!  And anyway, if Hawke hadn’t stopped me from pursuing a deal with White Chant, then we wouldn’t be in this bloody position!”  Aveline glares at Isabela, who raises an eyebrow and stares at her challengingly.  There is a long period of silence, and then Merrill looks at Hawke.  “Hey,” she smiles, “Do you want a cup of tea?”

 

“Merry, I would love one,” he grins, just pleased to get out of the firing line a little.  He looks at Anders, pokes him with a foot, “Oi, you want a tea?”

Anders shakes his head and mutters, “I’m enjoying the show…”

“Suit yourself then,” Hawke grins, and stands up to follow Merrill into the kitchen.  The six weeks following the Remember Karl Thekla gig have been momentous for Fader - by the third day after the gig, Aveline had had calls from reps from Fortress, regarding touring on the undercard for Highever Orphan, a request for a meeting with White Chant Music (“Elthina  _ again _ ?” Varric had grinned, and Aveline had rolled her eyes and nodded), but the first to make contact had been a representative of El Canto, Crow Blade’s label.  This had been the very next day, and Crow Blade had still been in town.  That call had caused Aveline to frown mightily, and when she had mentioned it in passing to Zevran, he had shaken his head.  “Far be it from me to influence your future direction,” he had said, leaning in, keeping his voice low, and narrowing his eyes.  They’d been having a farewell of sorts for Crow Blade, headed to Tantervale on the next leg of a short tour.  Hawke couldn’t help but notice how Zevran’s eyes had shifted to Taliesen as he’d told them, “But I would avoid El Canto.  They seem to be interested in extending their reach outside of Antiva, making a play to enter the market in other countries.  It’s business, what can I say?”

 

Hawke pulls himself up on the counter, settling himself on the narrow platform, and Merrill makes a face at him.  “Do you still have…”

“Four sugars.  Yes I do.  But I’ll do it, Merry-Berry-Cherry-Cherie,” he tells her as they wait for the kettle to boil.  Merrill sighs and shakes her head.  “I sort of agree with her, you know.”

“Huh?” Hawke asks, and Merrill chuckles, leaning back against the cupboard and folding her arms over her chest.

“Izzy,” she says in a low voice, “I agree with her.  I think.  We’ve got to sell something.  But I really don’t think that White Chant, or any of the other labels would have our best interests at heart.  And I know that’ll make it harder for Aveline - it might mean that we don’t make any money ever, not even enough to get by on - but I think it’s worth it.  ‘Cause it’s not all about money, is it?  I mean, it’s not for me.  But maybe that’s just because I’ve always been poor, I dunno…”

“I’d rather be happy than rich,” Hawke smiles, and then looks up at the ceiling, thinking.  “Well, I’ve never been rich, so it’s not like I’m speaking from experience.  But… that kind of means we have to make our own company, doesn’t it?”  He laughs and itches his elbow, “You weren’t around for the fights we used to have over the band name!  Imagine naming the company… it’d be dreadful!”

 

Merrill laughs and puts a teabag into each mug.  “We’re going to fight about the album name too, I just know it.  So silly.  Still, names are important.  Can you imagine naming a baby?  That’d be so hard!”

Hawke snorts, “I’m not going to have that problem.”

“Really?  You don’t want kids?”  Merrill looks at him, her eyes large, puzzled.  “I bet your mum has something to say about that.”

“Well it’s not like I’m going to be having sex with any girls any time soon.  Last I heard that was sort of a prerequisite…”

“Only if you’re, y’know, DIY-ing,” Merrill grins, and then tells him, almost shyly, “Aw, I dunno, I think you’d be a good da’.”  She finishes stirring her tea, then picks it up, and her words blow steam from the rim of her mug as she says, “One day.”

“I couldn’t even look after a pet.  Not even a pet rock.  I can barely look after myself!  And anyway, we’re no closer to solving the ultimate riddle - what are we going to call the label?  And the record?”

Merrill laughs then, shrill.  “Well, we are  _ Fader _ .  Let’s call it Apostates!”

 

“Pfft,” Hawke says, “Apostates… Actually… that’s not so bad.  Hey!” he yells through to the others, still bickering in the lounge, “We’re going to call the label Apostate Records!”  He grins, waggles his eyebrows at Merrill, and they listen to the laden silence.  Then, into it, together, Isabela and Aveline both yell, “No!”

 

Hawke laughs, and half a second later, Merrill joins him.  He hears Varric say something, and then his low bellowing laugh joins theirs.  Hawke takes his mug, walking back through to the lounge, where he is met with almost identical glares from Isabela and Aveline.  “No, no, no,” Aveline tells him, “Are you bonkers?  Honestly, Hawke - you may as well just paint a target on your back.  You’re already in a band called Fader, for the love of…”

“Yeah, well it makes sense then, doesn’t it?”  Hawke says.  He cocks his head and looks at her, and she frowns.  “We could have a vote, if you like?”

 

“I don’t think so, Hawke,” Aveline tells him, and Varric raises an eyebrow.  

“C’mon, Avie.  It’s their thing.  We funnel talent - we don’t tell it which way to go.  They wanna call it Apostate Records - stupid name that, it’d be better to go with Apostasy - then that’s…”

“Hang on… Apostasy?”  Anders pulls his feet out from underneath him, plants them on the floor and leans forward.  “That is kind of a good name.”

 

“Uh oh,” Merrill laughs, and dances from foot to foot, “Looks like Izzy is losing…”

Isabela frowns and shakes her head.  “No.  No!  Hawke, don’t be a dick, I told you about the fucking  _ band name _ …”  She clenches her jaw and crosses her legs, sitting back hard into the armchair.  “I am not interested in being part of this fight.  Don’t get me wrong, I get it - mages get a bad rap.  But a  _ lot  _ of people get a bad rap.  Holy Mother, look around you!  We live in a city where people aren’t eating because there’s not enough work - where people live in the most abject poverty in one part of the city, and are flinging sovereigns around not two miles up the road.  Where you can’t get treated in the free clinics if you’re wearing vallaslin.”  Hawke looks at Merrill, but she is looking at Isabela, her eyes luminous.  Then suddenly, she glances at him, and lifts her eyebrows slightly as if to say,  _ you didn’t know? _  “Fuck sakes, you two,” Isabela sighs, “Open your eyes.”

 

Quiet then in the room, and then Isabela says, more softly this time, “I’m all for living your truth.  And you know I’ll support just about anything if it means people get to be free of whatever is that’s keeping them down.  But don’t assume that all our truths are the same, or that you,” she points her finger first at Hawke, then at Anders, “Don’t get at least a little benefit out of the system as it stands.”

Anders opens his mouth, frowning, and Isabela cuts him off sharply.  “Don’t start with me, Anders.  For one thing, you’re human.  Yes, you’re a mage, but fuck sakes, when you’re walking down the street, no-one crosses the road to avoid you.  You’re part of the majority here.”

“So you get the benefit too,” Anders says coldly, “This human benefit.”

 

“Sure,” Isabela says, and her lip curls a little into a challenging little smile.  She lowers her eyes for a moment, then shakes her head.  “Look.  I’m not going to try to change your opinions, if you’re dead set on Apostasy Music.  But I just want you to fucking  _ consult  _ me, once in awhile.  I’m in this band too.  And you know, I can be pretty damn pliable if you ask me about shit, rather than bludgeon me over the head with it.  Positively flexible, even,”  she smirks at Anders, then snorts a laugh and blows him a kiss.  “Cheer up, sweets.  It’s not that bad.”

 

Hawke looks at Anders, frowning in his seat on the sofa, and blows on his tea, thinking.  “You know…” he says, “If we’re going to do the whole bootleg thing, let's just say fuck it, have a big fucking party, and sell the tapes then.  Maybe then we could do our own thing after we finish the Nevarran leg of the tour with Orphan, if we get enough money.  Maybe go even further north, or down to Orlais…”

“Like a tour, you mean?” Aveline says, and smiles slightly.  “Your bloody ambition is going to send me grey before my time…”  she rolls her eyes and chuckles.  “But I like the idea of a party…”

Varric is nodding, grinning.  “Hey, and Philliam is pretty keen on doing a little more on you guys now that you’re getting local-famous and shit.  So, maybe I can write about it?”

 

Merrill laughs, “But you lot!  Oh no, now we have to go through the name thing again!  I mean, we can’t just sell the bootleg without a title…”

“What about self-titling?” asks Anders, and Hawke and Isabela both shake their heads.

“Boring!” Hawke declares, “What about…  _ Warhound _ ?”

“There’s already a band called Warhound,” Aveline points out, and Hawke pouts, then sips his tea.  The room is quiet for a moment, then Merrill chips in, “What about  _ Magic Mountain? _ ”

“Too magic-y,” Isabela says, “We need something kinda sexy sounding…”

Hawke laughs, “ _ Tent Sex _ !  _ Firelight Orgy _ ! Um…  _ Hard and Fast _ ?”

“Ew,” Merrill laughs, wrinkling her nose, “Isabela said  _ kind of sexy _ , not ultra-gross!”

 

“What about…” Anders says, “What about  _ Queen of Cats _ ?”

There is a silence as they mull it over.  “ _ Queen of Cats _ ,” Isabela says, narrowing her eyes, and then she nods, but looks confused.  “What does it mean?”

“Does it have to mean anything?” Anders replies, a trifle snippily, and Hawke giggles.  

“Yeah…  _ Queen of Cats _ .  It sounds kind of… mystical.  Weird.”  He cocks his head, rolling the title around in his mind, “Yeah.  I like it.”

“Me too,” Merrill says, and grins.  “I like it a lot.   _ Queen of Cats… _ it sounds very pretty.  But kind of… I dunno.  Regal.  It’s good.”

 

All eyes turn to Isabela, who shrugs.  “Sure,” she says, “ _ Queen of Cats  _ it is then.  But I call dibs on naming the next one.”

“Aw!” Hawke says loudly, and slaps his leg.  “I was going to say that!”

“You snooze, you lose, Tal-baby,” Isabela grins, and rolls her eyes, laughing.

 

“So that’s it?  It’s settled?”  Anders looks at Aveline and raises an eyebrow.  “We’re going to call the live album  _ Queen of Cats _ , and we’re going to release it under Apostasy Music.  And we’re going to have a damn big party before we go on tour with Orphan.” He snorts and grins, then laughs.  “I don’t think that this could be better…”

“It could pay more,” Aveline tells him, and sighs.  “What do you want me to tell Elthina?”

Hawke grins slyly, “Tell her to come to the gig.  Give her a special invitation.  I wanna see her face when I tell her to go fuck herself.”

“ _ Hawke! _ ” Aveline says with approbation, but the rest of those assembled laugh.  

 

-|||-

 

Hawke stares absently at his cereal, spooning it without enthusiasm into his mouth.  His mother glances up from the paper and says, “Did you read about these awful murders, darling?  I hope your lady friends are keeping up with it…”

Hawke blinks at her and shakes his head, “Nope,” he says with his mouth full, “Wassat?”

“Some horrible man… or person, I suppose, they don’t know yet… is going around killing people.  Women.  This says they have two that they can confirm have been murdered by same person, and there’s speculation that there is a third too.  Awful.  Awful,” Leandra shakes her head and sips her tea.  “And to think someone knows the person doing this, and they’re blissfully unaware. It’s really quite dreadful.  I suppose we all have to be on our guard these days.”

 

“Mmf,” Hawke says disinterestedly.  Truth be told, it's one more thing in this mess of a city.  Last week, the Viscount had had new legislation introduced to limit the distribution of lyrium, making it harder to get outside of the Circle environment; there was talk of an amendment to the law to prevent mages getting married.  A major vehicle manufacturer had also announced it would be rounding out its operations in Kirkwall, relocating all its plants to take advantage of the cheaper labour in the Anderfels.  In the tinderbox environment which Kirkwall had become, it had set off protests and demonstrations which had quickly turned violent.  Hawke sighs, and swallows his mouthful, then asks, “Mum, what’s today?”

 

“Thursday, darling.  Oh!  When are you leaving again?”

“No Mum, what date?”  Hawke sighs impatiently and lifts the edge of the newspaper, scanning the numbers upside down.  He thinks for a moment, then grins, “Fenris’ll be back soon!  Shit!  He’s gonna make it to our gig!”

“That’s nice, dear.  What’s Fenris?”

“Who, Mum,  _ who’s _ Fenris.  He’s… um… a friend of mine.  He’s been on tour.”

Leandra looks up sharply, and smiles, her eyes twinkling.  “A  _ friend _ ?  Or more than a friend?”

“Mum,” Hawke rolls his eyes, and shrugs, “Just a friend, sheesh.”  His stomach tightens, and he rubs his stubble, then says, “I dunno.  He might not want to come.  I was kind of mean to him when he last called…”

 

“Oh, Taliesin!”  Leandra says sternly, frowning at him.  “The poor boy.  You know, you’ll be the absolute death of me; how on earth can I ever become a grandmother if you won’t…”

“Andraste’s Tits, Mum, it’s not all about you!”  Hawke straightens from his lean against the kitchen counter and throws his spoon angrily into the sink.  It lands with a crash, bouncing off one side then the next, making the silence which follows even more resounding.  Hawke takes a deep breath, then says quietly, “Mum, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.  Okay?  It’s… it’s complicated.  But Fenris doesn’t… he just wants to be friends.  And I tried, really I did, but…”

 

“Maybe you didn’t try hard enough.  Taliesin, you can be very quick to leap into things; perhaps if you thought more about what Fenris wanted and less about…”

Hawke holds his breath and stares at his mother.  She looks back at him challengingly and shrugs, “Well you  _ are _ .  I’m only telling you that because I love you.  And your father was the same, so it stands to reason…”

“Don’t talk about him like that.  Okay?  Dad was…”

“Your father was a real life person, Taliesin.”  Leandra’s voice has gone quiet, and she looks at him without sympathy, “He  _ was  _ impetuous.  He could be very cutting, very stubborn, childish and…”

“Mum…”  Hawke’s voice is soft, dangerous, and he can feel tension course through his arms, his back, “Mum…”

“He was also a lovely man - kind, wonderful with you children, generous to a fault with his friends.”  Leandra swallows and looks back down at the counter, smiling to herself.  “I loved him, very much.  He was a person, Taliesin.  A whole person, with faults.  Just like you are.   Just like I imagine Fenris is.”  She sighs and raises her eyes, smiling gently, “I do have a point, you know.  Perhaps it is best to know more about a person, before you go giving your heart away.” She shrugs, folds up the paper as she tells him, “I never regretted being with your father.  But we had known each other quite a while before we got married.  I made sure of that, though if your father had had his way we would have been married within a week of meeting each other.”

 

Hawke snorts.  “Sure,” he says noncommittally, and takes his cereal bowl to the sink.  He’s firmly convinced that he and Fenris will never feel the same way about each other.  There was always the spectre of his magic between them; and really, could Hawke blame Fenris for feeling the way he does?  After all mages have put him through?  The more he thinks about it, the more ashamed he feels of the way he’d treated Fenris.  But he pushes the thoughts away, collecting his jacket from the hook by the front door, shrugging into it and telling his mother, “Dunno when I’ll be back.  Don’t wait up.”

 

Leandra sighs, looking at him rather sadly.  “Alright darling.  Would you write down the dates you’ll be away please?  For me?”

He looks at her, the chill wind from the open door swirling into the house, making the pages of the newspaper in her hand shake.  “Yeah, Mum.  Sure thing.  As soon as I get back, okay?  Hey…”  He is about to say that they’ll be playing their last gig, their farewell to Kirkwall in four days, and does she want to come?  But at the last minute, he changes his mind, instead telling her, “Thanks for the talk.  I’ll see you later, alright?”

“Alright, darling,” Leandra repeats and smiles slightly, “Have fun.  Not too much,” she chides gently, and he smiles at her in return.

 

-|||-

 

A bead of sweat rolls into Hawke’s eye, and he blinks it away.  His face hurts from smiling so much; the stage lights blind him, and he feels Anders warm body at his back, feels the gust of his breath as he sings,  _...we can sleep and .... make love deeper… later we can dance and we can drink! _  Anders laughs into the microphone as Hawke treads on his pedal, distorting the sound, blurring it with fuzz.  A hand trails over Hawke’s waist as Anders walks around him, still singing, then slinging an arm over Hawke’s shoulders so that they can share the microphone.  Hawke tries to concentrate on the patterns of his fingers, but all he can feel is the brush of Anders’ naked stomach on the back of his arm, the movement of his muscles under his skin, the tickle of Anders’ hair as it brushes against his shoulder.   _ Days like these _ ... _ I hardly disagree... _ they sing together, and Hawke smiles, looking down at his left hand.  Anders pulls the microphone away and pecks him on the cheek, and Hawke swallows, grinning at him, glancing up quickly as Anders sashays away from him, dancing now toward Isabela.

 

Hawke looks out, into the crowd, hardly able to believe the amount of people here tonight.  The Hanged Man is full to bursting, and despite Hawke’s fears, the cover charge has not seemed to have dissuaded people.   _ Avie was right _ , he thinks, and wonders how she’s faring at the merchandise stand.  There will be enough money from tonight, even after they’ve paid the venue their share of the profits, to put them in fairly good stead for the tour - to perhaps even continue it once they drop off Orphan’s schedule.  Aveline has sworn to keep pushing for more gigs, and Hawke will check in with her every day - Maker, he is determined to make this work.  It’s too important to fail at.  

 

-|||-

 

Isabela laughs and swats him on the arse, and Hawke yelps and grins, plopping down opposite Anders on the sofa.  “You fuckin’ dog,” she tells him, laughing, “You were all cocked up when Anders blew in your ear, and you never recovered!  Sad little man.”

Anders laughs and shakes his head, wiping an arm over his forehead.  The dull backstage light makes his body gleam softly, and Hawke snorts and averts his eyes.  He takes a deep breath, and tells Isabela, “You weren’t much better when he touched your butt.”

 

“Filthy lies,” she tells him airily, and both Merrill and Anders laugh at that.  Hawke looks up quickly, glancing at Merrill, who glances back, smiling.  It seems strained, however, and Hawke frowns slightly, trying to figure it out.  Merrill looks away again, kicking her heels against the stack amplifier on which she sits, and flaps her sweaty t-shirt.  “Hooo,” she says, a little too brightly, “It was a good show, wasn’t it?  I wonder how Varric’s gone?  Do you think that Avie sold any tapes?  It was really good though, if we play half as well as that on tour, I think that’ll be alright.  I wonder what it’ll be like?  I’ve never been to Nevarra before, do you think we’ll have any time to sightsee or…?”

 

There is a perfunctory knock at the door and then Aveline says from the other side, “Are you all decent?  I need to talk to you.”

“As decent as we get, big girl,” Isabela shouts back, and Aveline enters.

“Hey,” she says without preamble, “I’ve got good news and… interesting news.  Good news first: we sold all the tapes.  In the first hour.”

“Shit,” Anders breathes, and looks at Hawke to raise an eyebrow and smile slightly.  Hawke laughs in disbelief and glances at Isabela, who looks smug.  She folds her arms over her chest and says, “Told you.”

“Yes, yes,” Aveline says impatiently, and then brandishes a thick, buff coloured envelope.  Even before she begins speaking, Hawke sees the logo printed on the outside of it - a single white star.  “Guess who accepted our invitation.”

 

“Fucking Elthina!?” Hawke says, “Where is she then? C’mon, lemme at her…”

“Don’t be a dick, Hawke,” Aveline says, glaring at him, and Merrill flaps a hand at him.

“Shh,” she says, and cocks her head at Aveline, “So?  What’s that about then?  That envelope?”

“It’s a contract.  Elthina didn’t come herself, she sent a hire of hers, um… hang on…” Aveline digs a card out of her pocket and squints at it, then says, “Petrice.  Whatever - she seemed like kind of a bitch.  But yeah, so this is a contract.  A White Chant contract.  I haven’t had a chance to look at it myself - and we’ll have to get some legal advice but…”

 

“No,” Hawke says immediately.  “I don’t want it.  We don’t want it.”

“Hawke, fuck sakes.  Stop being so unreasonable!”  Aveline actually stamps her foot, and Hawke raises his eyebrows at her.  “I understand you wanting to retain creative control, but think of the benefits this will…”

“I am.  Trust me, Avie, I’m not a moron - signing with White Chant would be a big deal.”  Hawke leans forward on the sofa, putting his elbows on his knees, “But you know what?  It’s because I’m not a moron that I see we need to hedge our bets.  You’re right; we should get a lawyer to look at that contract.  But if we go to White Chant, we’re on the same roster as Holy Sword, those assholes from Harrowing, fucking Red Dogs of Violent Death even…”

“Hawke, they’re all signed to Redoubt.  They’re metal, for goodness sake.  You’re letting politics colour your…”

“You’re damn right I am.  There’s no way I want to be connected even remotely with that bunch of mage-hating…”

 

“Andraste’s Pearly Panties, not this again,” Isabela moans quietly and sighs.  “It’s money, Tal.  Money doesn’t have an agenda.  And White Chant know what they’re signing up for with us.  They know what they’re buying.”

Anders snorts.  “Everything has an agenda.  Don’t be naive, Izzy.  Money’s just another leash.”

Isabela snorts disgustedly and rolls her eyes.  Aveline purses her mouth and looks at the envelope.  “I… actually thought you’d be quite pleased about this.  It’s a big deal to be sought out by White Chant like this.  I mean, do you have any idea of how hard I worked to make this happen?”  She shakes her head, “I know you work hard too.  I just…”  She sighs, squeezes her eyes shut for a moment before telling them softly, “Forget it.  I’ll see you in the morning, okay?  Before you leave.”

 

And with that, she turns and walks out.  “Fuck,” Hawke breathes, and looks at Anders.  Anders glances at him and shrugs. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs, and Isabela sneers.

“This is a fucking great start to a road trip,” she says and unfolds her arms.  “I’m going to go find Varric, see how much money we made.  If you dorks ever get done wanking off over mage rights, let me know.”

She glares at Hawke as she leaves and he looks at her, puzzled.  She’s never been quite this nasty before - he sort of gets where she’s coming from, supposes it must get a bit stuck-record, but still.  He looks at Merrill for some kind of explanation, sees her hunched shoulders and worried expression.  “Merry..?” he asks quietly, and Merrill shakes her head as if to rouse herself.  

“Mmm?” she says, looking at him with her eyebrows raised, a tight, pensive smile on her face.  “Oh.  Uh… yes.  I’m going to go and talk to her.  I’m sure it’s nothing.  Or… maybe nothing.  I don’t know.  Uh… I’ll see you in the morning?  We’re meeting at nine, is that right?”

Hawke nods, and Merrill gives him that strange smile again before jumping down from the amp.  “Okay,” she sing-songs, and darts quickly across the room, almost diving out the door.  

 

The muffled hum of the noise from the bar is the only sound left.  Hawke takes a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck, glancing at Anders.  “Well,” he says, smiling slightly, “That could have gone better.  Ugh,” he says, lifting his arm and sniffing, wrinkling his nose, “And I stink too.  Probably not as badly as that White Chant contract but…”

Anders shakes his head.  “It’ll be a tight one, alright.  They’ll give us good distribution though, and then pinch on the rights.  I’m not selling my rights.  Not for anything.”

“Ex-fucking-actly,” Hawke says and sighs.  “Why doesn’t Avie get that?  Why don’t any of them get it?”

“Because they’re not aware of it.  Merrill might be, a little, but…” Anders shrugs, “She’s pretty easily lead, and I think she’d do just about anything to make Izzy happy.  And Izzy doesn’t give a shit, as long as she’s paid.  The long term doesn’t matter to her at all.”

 

Hawke frowns a little at this assessment, which seems perfunctory at best, dismissive at worst.  He draws breath to speak when Anders sighs.  “I better get going,” he says, rather sadly.  “I’ll see you at Varric’s in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” Hawke says, and nudges Anders with his elbow,  “Pleasant dreams and all that.”

“I’ll dream of you fucking up your solo,” Anders grins, getting up off the sofa to pull on a khaki Army surplus coat over his bare chest.  Hawke’s stomach flips a little at those words,  _ I’ll dream of you _ , and he grins moronically, then clears his throat.  “Yeah,” he says and gets up off the sofa, “You do that.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

-|||-

 

Hawke laughs, downs the last of his beer and picks up his guitar case.  “Thanks, Corff,” he waves to the surly bartender, and turns, ready to head home.  He smiles to himself, thinking about the past night, and then stops, a small gasp escaping him, eyes widening.  Fenris.  He’s standing there, right there, in the flesh, a worried little smile in the corner of his mouth, hands thrust into the pockets of his leather jacket.  His hair is a little longer, and he looks very, very tired.  He frowns slightly, and Hawke tries to say something, anything, but all that comes out is “Hi.”

 

“Hello,” Fenris says, and Hawke sees his throat work as he swallows.  They stare at each other, and Hawke’s heart starts to hammer as he sees that Fenris is wearing the red scarf that he’d given him before he left.  A tiny  _ oh _ escapes him, and Fenris shifts from foot to foot, scanning the bar, then looking back at Hawke.  “If you would rather not speak to me,” he says quietly, “I understand.”

 

Hawke shakes his head.  “No,” he says, finding his tongue at last, “No, Maker, it’s so good to see you.  You look…” he blinks, suddenly aware that any comment of this nature might be unwelcome, and then blurts out, “I’m sorry.  For the other day.  On the phone.  Things were kind of… intense.  But… how are you?  Are you alright?”

Fenris shakes his head, looks at the floor.  “I am fine.  The tour is over - it was a success, in many aspects.  And Danarius did not show himself the entire time.  Which was… odd.  But the phonecall… It was not the best decision I have made.  But I needed to hear your…”  He stops, clenches his jaw and looks away, then says, “It doesn’t matter.”

Hawke sighs, tucks his hair behind his ear with the hand not holding his guitar case.  “Look,” he says, “I’m… I’m sorry about everything.  I know I push too hard, and… man, I don’t want to push you away with it.  If you need me, I’m here.  Any way you need me.  Okay?  You just have to ask.”

Fenris nods, still looking at the floor.  He sighs and smiles slightly, sadly, Hawke thinks, and then looks at him to say, “I saw the show.  You have improved.  You… and Anders, you… put on a good show.”

 

Hawke frowns a little at that, concerned at what he reads in the subtext of that statement.  Then he smiles weakly and tells Fenris, “Uh… thanks.  Hey.  We got an offer from Orphan to tour on their undercard through Nevarra, and… and I’ll be leaving tomorrow for that.  But I got a list of all the places we’ll be at for my mum, and I can get you one too, if you want it.  And Avie is staying, she’s got one…”

“Hawke.”  Fenris smiles gently, raises his eyebrows slightly and looks at Hawke, “Tal.  If I didn’t know better I would swear you were asking me to call you.”

“I just… I want to be around for you, okay?  That’s… that’s what friends do.  If you need me.  I don’t wanna be like… pestering you or whatever.”  Hawke sighs and shrugs.  “Please.  Please, call me if you need me, alright?  Please.”

 

Slowly, Fenris nods.  “Alright.  I will ask Aveline for the list.  But do not concern yourself if you do not hear from me.  I will… I will still be here when you get back.  I have work to do.  And so do you.”

“Don’t I know it?” Hawke smiles and snorts a laugh, rolling his eyes.  “Between Anders and Isabela, I’ll need a fucking holiday after this tour.  Do rockstars get days off?”

Fenris laughs a little, his usual quiet chuckle.  “Not very often,” he says, and then his expression shifts, becomes softer, “It is good to see you again, Hawke.”

 

“Yeah.  It’s good to be seen,” Hawke smiles, and walks forward, his hand out.  Fenris looks at the hand, frowning slightly, and Hawke laughs.  “Yeah, what am I thinking?  C’mere, you.”  

One handed, he pulls Fenris into a hug.  For a moment, Fenris resists, his body stiff, awkward, and Hawke cringes internally at himself.   _ Way to make him uncomfortable, dumbass! _ he thinks, and then he feels Fenris relax a little against him, and put an arm up, patting him gently on the back.  Hawke releases Fenris, grins sheepishly at him and says, “Okay.  Well.  I better get going.  Early start and all that.”

 

Fenris nods and smiles slightly.  “Good luck,” he says quietly, “Not that you need it.”

“A little luck never hurts,” Hawke smiles, and tilts his head.  “You call, alright?  Call if you need me.  Anytime.”

Fenris is silent for awhile, and then sighs.  “I can take care of myself, Hawke.”

“I know you can,” Hawke says quickly, and then feels his brow crease in concern, “But… I’m just saying.  You know, just saying you don’t have to.  I mean, if you want, I want to… and…”  He sighs, rubs the back of his neck, shakes his head.  “Fen, fuck.  I’m sorry.  I just want to help.”

 

“I know, Hawke,” Fenris says quickly.  He takes Hawke’s hand, gently, raising his eyebrow and shaking his head.  “You don’t have to try so hard.”

“‘Kay,” Hawke says, and pulls his hand out of Fenris’ grip.  “I… I better go.”

Fenris nods.  “Of course.  I will see you when you return.”

“You just try and stop me,” Hawke laughs, and looks down at his feet.  “You just try and stop me.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it's a twofer... (I couldn't leave you hanging...)

When he lets himself into the house, only the kitchen light is still on.  No surprises there - past two AM now, and the little flat is silent; Hawke knows his mother’s probably left the light on for him.  He grimaces, heading to the kitchen with his guitar case in his hand.  He’s trying to stave off the lyrium shakes; he’s been trying to cut down at least, but it’s hard.  Maker, it’s hard.  He sets the case on the ground and is about to pick up the kettle when the the latch rattles and his mother comes in, smiling and flushed.  She waves over her shoulder to someone, and then turns, taking a step back suddenly, her outstretched hand flying to her chest as her eyes go wide.  An involuntary  _ oh! _ escapes her, and she stares at Hawke for a moment, before he clicks the light on and she realises and rolls her eyes.  “Maker in His City,” she says, “Taliesin, you frightened me!”

 

“As well I should,” he says to her, “What time do you call this?”

“Early,” she tells him blithely, running a hand over her hair and putting her handbag on its hook.  Hawke cannot help noticing the satisfied little smile on her lips, and he grins mercilessly, “You weren’t having a cheeky screw, were you?  Mother, I’m astonished at your lack of morals…”

“Pot calling the kettle black there, rather, isn’t it darling?”  Leandra asks, and Hawke is taken aback by the relaxed tone in which she speaks.  She sees his expression and laughs, high and delighted.  Hawke cocks his head and narrows his eyes.

“Mum…”  And he laughs, the idea seems so ridiculous, but he asks anyway, “Are you high? What’s got you so…” He waves his hand, searching for the word, and then says, “I don’t know.  You seem…”

“Happy?”  Leandra says, walking past him into the kitchen.  Her low heels tap on the linoleum, and she swings open the refrigerator, taking out the milk.  Then she checks the kettle, refills it and tells him, “Just life, darling.  Doesn’t your life make you happy?”

 

“Uh...yeah?” Hawke takes two mugs from the draining board, and takes the teapot down from its high shelf.  He leans against the counter, one hip on the cold stainless steel, and folds his arms over his chest.  “So?   _ Are _ you high?”

“I might be a little bit tipsy,” Leandra says, and arches an eyebrow, “But hardly inebriated.  I’ve certainly seen you in worse states.”  She eyes him cautiously, pouring boiling water into the pot and then swirling it.  As she tips the hot water into the sink she asks, “How was your concert tonight?”

 

“Good.  Avie sold all the tapes.  Most of the merch is gone too…”

“Oh, Taliesin!  That’s wonderful news.  I hope you’ll bring some of it into the household, your uncle…”

“Gamlen can go fuck himself.  That’s tour money, Mum.”

 

Leandra blinks, and her smile snaps off.  “That’s unfair.”

“No.  It’s really not.”  Hawke sniffs and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.  “It’s not my money, Mum.  It’s Fader’s money.  They…”

“Your bandmates are entitled to their share.  But you’ve written most of the music, haven’t you?  If you write the music, you get the lion’s share of the paycheck.  That’s the…”

Hawke shakes his head, “No.  Even if I did write it, even if I wrote all of it, which I don’t, then I’d  _ still _ make sure that we went even.  Fucksake, Mum… Anders lives in the worst shithole imaginable, it’s like… all rats and no ‘lecky and the water runs  _ brown _ sometimes.   _ Brown _ , Mum.  And Merrill’s place is almost worse, it’s fucking awful in the Alienage, they don’t even get brown water sometimes, there’s like, shit, actual  _ shit _ in the street, and they’ve got no  _ food _ some days… and I don’t even know where Izzy lives, I mean, I assumed she lived with Varric for ages, but...I…”  He shakes his head, distracted, then takes a deep breath.  “I’m not going to row with you over this.  They’re my friends.  We all write the music.  And we’re taking that money on tour.  Then, we’re going to come back here, and we’re going to start working on a new record, and we’re going to be big and we’re going to clean up this utter shithole of a town.”

 

Leandra snorts and scoops two spoonfuls of dried tea leaves into the teapot angrily, scattering the dark curls over the counter.  “Yes.  I’m sure you will.  And the next day they’ll announce my appointment as Grand Cleric.  Stop  _ fooling _ yourself, Taliesin.  This is a nice dream, but it’s not going to pay for anything.  Dreams are not free - you always,  _ always _ , end up paying.  You or someone else.”  She sloshes hot water from the kettle into the teapot, then crashes the lid of the teapot down on the stained porcelain and huffs out a breath.  “I don’t want this tea anymore.  I’m going to bed.”

“Fine,” Hawke tells her, and rubs his hand over his forehead as she walks past him.  “I won’t see you in the morning.  We’re leaving early.”

 

His mother pauses for half a second, her hand on the doorjamb.  She turns slightly, looking at him from the side of her eye, and then opens her mouth as if she will speak.  He waits, willing her to say something, anything; he cannot, he will not apologise, not without her making the first move.  But instead she lifts her chin and says, “Fine.”  And with that, she sweeps from the room.

 

Hawke lets out a breath, clenches his fist on the counter.  He stares at the teapot, feels the coiling rage within him unfurl and takes a deep breath.  He purses his lips, closes his eyes and sets his jaw, then picks up his jacket and opens the front door again.  He won’t be able to sleep tonight anyway.

  
  


Meeran grins at him when he opens the door and Hawke grins back.  “Hey, hey,” Meeran says, his voice rough, “Looks like all the rockstars are in tonight for a little holiness.  How you doing, Hawke-baby?”

“I’ve seen better days, Meeran, you old dog.  How’s tricks?  Business is booming, no doubt?”

“Dunno mate, dunno… it is at the moment, but how long for, eh?  How long before that new bill comes in?  Lotta talk about it, man, and demand ain’t goin’ nowhere.  Supply gets thin, it’ll get us all by the throat.  Hey, you met Lee before?”

 

Meeran wanders into the sketchy apartment, and gestures to a man sitting in the corner on a threadbare armchair.  The man looks up at Hawke when his name is mentioned, lifts his eyebrows lazily by way of greeting, but says nothing.  He looks vaguely familiar to Hawke, but not enough to say that they had met before.  So he shakes his head, the presence of lyrium making him impatient to get the deal done.  “Uh, unless you hadn’t noticed, Meeran, I’m getting desperate here..?”

Meeran laughs, and walks to the window, twitching the pulled curtains aside as if he is looking for something.  “Now, now, Tal.  Wouldn’t kill you to be a little friendly, would it?”

 

“No, no, I suppose it wouldn’t,” Hawke babbles, and searches for something to say.  He’s beginning to hurt a little for it now, and knows that Meeran likes to hold it over him as long as possible.  He clenches his fists hard by his side, trying to hide the tremours in his hands.  “So,” he begins, and then the man in the armchair laughs and rubs his hand over his long dark hair.  His grey green eyes are hooded, and he looks exhausted.  

“G’won, Meeran.  Don’t be a tosser.”

Meeran pauses, obviously considering.  The look he gives the man in the armchair is strange, almost like he is worried about trying to impress him.  This instantly rankles Hawke a little, but he hasn’t had a fix all day, and he knows what he told Anders, but… he shakes his head, feels the trembling in his guts and knows he just needs a little.  Some for now, some for later.  Maker knows when he’ll be able to get any again.  But this is the last time, he tells himself, last time pays for all.  

 

The man looks around at Meeran and Meeran frowns slightly, still standing in the window.  “Whatcha still standing there for?” he asks, and Meeran nods.  Hawke narrows his eyes as the other man kicks his heels against the armchair and then itches his neck.  The grey green eyes consider him carefully, and then he says, “You’re Carver’s brother, ain’t ya?  Good kid that one.  Nervy as fuck though.  Bit young for LWS, I thought, but he’s good at what he does.”

 

“Uh,” is all Hawke can manage, and then Lee smiles and Hawke recognises him.  He snorts and his upper lip pulls upward in a sneer.  “Lee Samson,” he says and raises his eyebrow, “What in the Void are you doing in my town?”

“Last I heard,” Samson says, smiling, “You were just some no-name refugee.  Now I hear you’re touring with Orphan.  Comin’ up in the world, eh?  Pretty hot shit now.  You wait,” he says, and leans back in the armchair.  “You wait.  I remember when Red Dogs of Violent Death were just some no-name band too.  You fuckin’ wait.  Fame gives pretty good for a while, but it takes it all back in the end.  Just like this shit.”  He gestures at the lyrium paraphernalia on the small table at the side of the chair on which he sits, and smiles beatifically at Hawke.  “Lemme guess, you came in for a hit to tide you over for tomorrow, right?  And a little insurance for the tour?”  He laughs mirthlessly, “Or don’t tell me, one last fix, that’s it, you’re done.”

 

Hawke says nothing, and Samson shakes his head.  “Yeah,” he grins, “I recognise the look.  I been having my last fix for a while now.”

“Congratulations,” Hawke tells him, and looks in the direction that Meeran’s gone.  He huffs out a breath and frowns, trying to hold his tongue, but in the end he cannot help himself, “I thought you jerks were based in Fereldan?”

Samson raises an eyebrow and smiles, “Not anymore.  Came back to the Marches.  Most of us are Marchers, y’know - s’only Len that’s not.  Nice to be home, or close to.  I’m just here by myself at the moment - rest of  _ us jerks _ aren’t comin’ up until later.  Plus Redoubt’s based up here anyway, and it’s cheaper to run tours out of Kirkwall than it is to haul ass up from Fereldan.  But you’ll learn all about that.”

 

Samson sits back, his eyes closing languidly.  Hawke watches him, unnerved by the peculiar intensity with which Samson speaks.  He knows that Red Dogs of Violent Death are a singularly popular band, given the aggression which characterises their music - unlike earlier examples of the genre, their sound is characterised by the speed at which they play.  But honestly, it’s not the music itself he objects to; its the sentiment which accompanies the interviews and other rantings of two band members in particular, Meredith Stannard, RDVD’s rhythm guitarist, and Otto Alrik, their drummer.   _ Don’t forget that Rutherford git _ , Hawke thinks, and shifts his shoulders.  Samson seems… different somehow, but Hawke knows that it would be a mistake to trust him too much.  This man is not a friend.

 

Meeran comes in, grinning.  “Hawke, baby,” he says, and Hawke narrows his eyes suspiciously, “All I got is dust.”

“Aw, Meeran, fuck off..!  I can’t have dust, come on, that’s gonna…”

“Nah, shoulda been more clear,” Meeran wipes his nose, and his grin widens, “All I got  _ for you _ is dust.”

Hawke’s mouth drops open.  It’s useless to appeal to Meeran’s common decency - he knows from past experience that all this gets him is a more heavily cut dose and an even lengthier wait.  So he closes his mouth with a snap and considers his options.  Finally, he grinds out, “Fine.  Sell me the dust then.”

 

“Ahh, here’s the thing though,” Meeran smiles, “I gotta look out for number one.  Nothin’ against you, you understand.  I was packing up for you, right, and then it occurred to me - supplies gonna get shorter, if this new law comes in.  Gonna be harder to get our hands on the good shit.   And I said to myself, I said,  _ Meeran old chum, old sock, what are you gonna do about your habit when it comes time to pay the piper _ ?  That’s what I asked myself.  You understand.”  Meeran lifts his eyebrows, and raises his hands, smiling at Hawke, “You could always go to the Circle.  I hear they got lots of blue.”

Hawke is silent.  He’s never been sick for lyrium before; but this is hardly the time to start detoxing.  Without thinking, he looks at Samson, but Samson’s eyes are closed.  Hawke takes a deep breath.  “Are you going to sell me anything?”

 

“I only got a little dust,” Meeran says, and wipes his nose again.  “And I’ll have to sell it at the full rate.”

Hawke shakes his head, clenches his jaw and digs out his wallet.  It’s his last twenty.  He runs the tip of his tongue along the edge of his front teeth, his mother’s question  _ doesn’t your life make you happy? _ ringing in his ears - suddenly, he cannot wait to be out of Kirkwall.  He takes two paces across the room and holds the money out to Meeran, who takes it and produces a small bag of powder.  Hawke swallows, and takes the bag from him; it’s light, probably cut to shit, but he has to have something.  He pockets the bag and shakes his head, then tells Meeran bitterly, “Thanks for nothing.”

 

Meeran looks pained for a moment, then claps him on the shoulder.  “Aw, don’t be like that.  Business is business, ain’t it?  And I gotta look out for myself.  No need to get shitty about it.”

Hawke shifts, then blows out a breath.  “Right,” he says, “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah,”  Meeran says, and folds his arms.  “Be seein’ you.”

 

Hawke turns and strides back to the door.  His hand is on the doorknob when quietly, Samson says, “Oi.”

Hawke turns, sees Samson sitting up straight in the armchair again, Meeran looking at him.  Samson stares at Hawke for a long time, seriously, and Hawke frowns.  He opens his mouth to ask,  _ What _ ? when Samson says in a low growl, “Look out for yourself.  No-one else is gonna do it for you.  Remember what I said, right?”

“Yeah,” Hawke tells him, and opens the door.  He walks out, and slams behind him.  Fucking Meeran.  Fucking hell.  He touches the plastic bag of powder in his pocket, as if to reassure himself it is still there, and then marches off down the corridor.  He heads down the stairs, feeling the cold already seeping into his bones.  He won’t be sorry to leave this place.

 

-|||-

 

The trunk of the van slams, and Hawke hears Varric pat the back twice.  “All in,” Varric yells, and then Hawke sees him standing on the pavement, grinning through the window.  “Good luck,” Varric says, and drops Hawke a wink.  Hawke rolls his eyes, laughs, and hangs his arm out the open window, grinning at Varric.  He’s tired, sweaty still from spending most of the remenants of last night at the Sewer, heading over to Varric’s house far earlier than the agreed time.  Varric had looked at him pityingly when he’d opened the door to Hawke, and rolled his eyes, but he’d let him in, let Hawke pace his living room while he’d made coffee.  “Don’t need luck,” Hawke grins, and Varric chuckles.

“That’s the attitude.  I’ll hear all about it from Avie, no doubt.”  Aveline folds her arms over her chest and grins.  Varric looks up at her, shading his eyes from the morning sun, and then looks back at Hawke, “But I’ll want a play by play when you come back…”

 

Hawke laughs and says, “You can interview me.  As long as you include at least a paragraph on my stunning good looks and incredible talent.”

“Talent for mouthing off, maybe,” Aveline mutters, and Isabela hammers on the back of Hawke’s seat with her feet.

“Come on assholes,” she says, “Let’s go!”

Anders turns the key in the ignition and sighs.  “‘Bye Avie!  Remember to put the catfood out!”

“...and don’t forget the letters I gave you!” Merrill sing-songs, waving frantically, beaming with delight.  

“...I don’t have anything to add, I just like yelling stuff!” Isabela shrieks from the window as Anders pulls out into the street, and Hawke laughs aloud.  Last nights tensions seem to be forgiven - if they are not forgotten, they have not been mentioned.  Still, it's a long drive to Nevarra.  Anders chuckles and shakes his head as Merrill bounces up and down excitedly.  “It’s really happening,” she says, her voice wobbling with emotion, “Oh Creators, it’s really happening.  We’re going on tour, we’re going on tour!”

 

Hawke twists in his seat and grins at her.  “Yeah,” he says, and glances at Isabela, “Now all we have to do is not implode on stage, not end up hating each other, and come back with our reputations, egos and sexual health intact.  That’s not too much to ask, is it?”

Anders laughs and pulls left, glancing behind himself, checking his blind spot.  “Ha,” he says carelessly, “We’re doomed.”

“Yeah,” Isabela agrees from the back, and yawns.  “Turn the radio on, would you?”

 

Hawke fiddles with the dials, and the radio hisses then burbles to life.  A talk-back show, the phrase  _ elven scum _ leaping out of the speakers like a slap in the face.  Hawke grimaces and quickly twirls the dial.  Pop-rock, more mindless chatter, Antivan dancehall - swirling violins, a strident woman’s voice, more pop.  Hawke winces, sighs and glares at the radio, and then Isabela says, “Stop!  Go back, I love this song!”

 

Hawke winds the dial back a way, watching the red needle, and a woman’s voice sings  _...for it was I who chose to start… _

“This it?” Hawke asks, and looks backward again at Isabela, who grins, and sings the next line,  _ I see no need to take me home… I’m old enough to face the dawn…! _

 

The song rises, and Isabela takes a deep breath and bellows,  _ Just call me angel… of the morning, angel! _  And to Hawke’s surprise, Anders joins in on the next line, and they sing together,  _ Just touch my cheek before you leave me… bay-bee! _  Hawke laughs, looking at Anders, astonished.  Anders glaces back and grins, then turns his eyes to the road again and sings,  _ Just call me angel...of the morning, angel… _  Anders shakes his head, glances at Hawke again, then croons melodramatically, one hand outstretched toward the windshield,  _ and slowly turn away from me…. _

 

Hawke snorts and turns to look at Merrill.  She grins at him, then looks at Isabela, still singing in the backseat, her eyes closed.  She smiles around the words,  _ And...if we’re victims of the night… I won’t be blinded by the light _ … “Come on, you lot!” Isabela yells, and she and Merrill both begin the chorus.  Anders laughs, indicating for the turn onto the freeway north, and sings as well.  And then the four of them are yelling in the little van as it struggles up the rise, engine straining under its load of passengers and cargo,  _ Just call me angel… of the morning, angel!  Just touch my cheek before you leave me… bay-bee! _  Hawke laughs, tired, sweaty but pleased, and he grins as he sees the sign as it slides by his window -  Kirkwall city limits; drive safely! .  “Goodbye, Kirkwall!” he yells out the open window, as the others continue to sing, “Goodbye, you pig of a town!  We’ll be back!”  He laughs and looks back at Anders.  Their eyes meet briefly, then Anders turns and looks back at the road, smiling slightly.  Hawke stares at his profile for a moment longer, then back out at the horizon, as Kirkwall grows more distant by the moment.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, a huge thank you to all you lovelies who have followed along with this story! Part 2 should be up sometime in the next few months - watch the skies. You've all been such lovely supporters of this verse, but particularly huge thank yous to HermioneDanger, Dichotomous_Dragon and Earlgreyer, who have pushed me and poked the story and generally helped me massage this wee beastie into what it is today (which is something I'm very, very proud of) - as well as being the hugest, most wonderful cheerleaders. Couldn't have done it without you, you wonderful beings.
> 
> And of course, an entry from me in this 'verse would hardly be complete without a couple of music notes. In chapter 14, Fader are performing the JA song [So What!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0YL2wb-g_-w) from 1997's _Kettle Whistle_. And as you probably already know, the song on the radio that everyone is singing along with is [Angel of the Morning](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTzGMEfbnAw); that's the Juice Newton version, though Merilee Rush performed the original (as far as I can tell...).
> 
> See you on the flip side, rock and rollers.


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